The Famine of the Soul

Swindled by the trappings

of a culture on the skids.

Broken bottle shards

imbed themselves pointedly

into pink pear scrotum

splitting flesh to red rags

with the force of a flick blade;

(there's a popping in my brain)

and another pudgie foot-note

heaves his last death rattle

through the stain-glass window

pane...

Slivered fractions of flood-lights

from the sodium lamp that,

like the scowling vagrant

of the subliminal self,

continues to kill me pressingly,

and I feel run through with it's

chevalier's lance...

Swindled by highrollers

that would cleave me with a glance,

audaciously whipping me

with their sorry excuse of manhood

until their genius is

engorged with blood...

...I'd live to see them ambushed

by a flood of

uncongealed dung!...

Mad swine

that clamber monkey bars,

designing while they swung

a end to these last

staggering of days.

Tossed upon the scrap-heap

of a gag...

Choking on distress...

Teeter to a sag...

...Swindled by success

from across the tracks...

Damaged bits of day

That you can't get back.

5/20/20

Alessa Cleanse