Send in the flies

An empty easel resting
on a forlorn ricket frame.
A barren tripod listing
vacant to the sky.

An empty vessel
stretched and sanded
lays behind it.
The colonies of mold
have canvased it
and you and me
and this
and I can't
stand it.

Send in the flies.

Where is there hope
between your folds
of phallic jesting?
Your hairs collected,
lacquered,
festering--
bullshit.

A disguise

for an empty peasant,
begging, poor.
Screaming yet sequestered
in his filthy mind.
No sunlight there
to serve as disinfectant.

Quavering,

desperate,
damp and tepid.

Send in the flies.