Spiralling fog shack Tornado gnawing savagely at the soul Will the little Indians bite through with red teeth? I am alone, with heavy stomach My eyes like metal fists, their trophies, crushing my skeleton into the floor- Ash. Little Indians With feral spears and voices like swallowed thorns Oh look, a hinge! The skull is cut like cake, oozing jam and fat, rolling like a red carpet. Binoculars out, swarms of starving insects conscious of their potency Eyes burning yellow and tinting mine a Dull grey. The winter has solidiified, Spring trapped in an ice dome And the pile of dead bats grows higher. Fermented soul, your heart exists only to pump, Brain dead firefighter Vacant stare and robotic point of the hose Little boy, whose love caught on my flesh like nails, is drinking vodka and crying. The Mother's Mind is packed with worries, squelching in their liquid jelly journies, Round and round. I am here, not knowing what to do on a Sunday morning With a diluted sun chasing me through the window Its hand placed menacingly on the sill, curling into a fist As I refuse to help my poor Mother clean the kitchen.
