in
loving disaster surefire tenderness
those
walls neon bleeding our doorjamb
our
tenement our death-core by ink.
to
have sweetness by phobia if mantis
our
pain, so close, we rate our misery.
too
much to succumb, such infants in
motion,
our dire need for exploitation.
as
roaring thunder, raining from fangs if
blood
blue jazz; by cygnet ensemble or
starving
eyes, into trauma-terror; our
opened
nostrils, filled with poison, if to
deflate
into nothingness! those piglet
rumors,
bubbling into unvetted facts, as
nights
unfold, sweet fever, our knife grave.
