Untitled

This appeared on my page while eating salsa.

When will it grow?
A tumor resting its cover
Sentient killjoys dot the marbled plain
Mother our wealth
Milk our fear
A coal-slicked contingency
Proves the failed depths
Of where you are

The cold squeal of blasted perfection
In my addict's throat
Peels back ore, rare,
Congealed
When it detects the creased
Cashmere of your name

A tremor radar of the skin
I flick a spawning fly and mate
Dancing from my hand

Reviews

[Larry Dyson]

speaks volumes...gritty stuff..
"The cold squeal of blasted perfection
In my addict's throat
Peels back ore, rare,
Congealed
When it detects the creased
Cashmere of your name"

[arbitrary jane]

venomous. and scathing.
'the creased cashmere of your name'
the flicking of the mated flies...
it was like the flying kind of rage where you throw things at walls to hear them crash.
... must have been SOME salsa.