innards laid out, divined,

bloodless cold tripe

that cast insight on the plight of

who?  

these maladroit

broadcasts naught

but considered shite

a drama of the here and now

in as many acts

as you can swallow

just breathless gasping

in the vacuum-packed plastic

of this necrotic head

that tonight bleeds a deviant intramural

spring wash along ten brittle channels

jammed into veiny eyes shocked wide

at the pulsing cinnabar spread on the script

where drips the foul ledger of charges laid

squarely against , though each answered,

every one, singularly in third person text

as witness to their own prosecution

but at every objection perjured

must stomach the sentence and practice the tense