Fecal state the mattress
rots a virgin’s puerile fate
on ashen pallor a cellar door
is dashed into bits
we are not made of lightning
we are not made of any such thing
our existence is not so virtuous
this hour has come for thieves to take
and bloodied nose
drains floral patterns into storm drain
into street beaten back by rain
some teeth there make for quite the display
i want to burn money
turn god into gold
race dragon fire as it burns
a village to the ground
but hers is a scream i'd never heard
is magic, is death, is purged,
used, broken, abandoned, discarded,
…he got his fill
matter is not made of lightning
is not the fanatic’s calling
is deeper than we know
is the very edge of bleating
rainbows lead to heaven.
