I Tear For The Pauper’s Quote, The Invalid’s Letter,
Misguided And Misdirected, Buried In Insecurity Amidst
The Piles Of Discarded Dreams, Landscapes And Memories.
He Who Commands The Unthinkable From The Depths Of
Inhumanity,
The Rot And The Filth And The Undeniable Urges Stuffed In
Bowels
And Stinking, Putrid And Disgusting.
Those Who Lust For The Disaffected And Pipe For The Terror
Of Wide-Eyes And Bleeded Hearts. The Heat Proximity In Their
Temples And Their Loins, All Erect And Function, Squirm
And Fail.
From Moon And Sun, Through Castanet Clasp Overheard The
Rhythms,
Hips Thrown Forth Like Hades’ Ember And Molten Sex.
The Come Of A Thousand, Shrieking For The Closest Moment
To Death, The Clearest Mind-State, The Almost Touch Of
Reflection
Daunting And Powerful The Feeling Through Guts.
They Who Sew Light Together With Whispering Wands And
Antelope
Leaves, Thirsting For A Vacation From This Reality, To Turn In
This Past And Sever Their Aortas.
Who Fling Themselves Naked, Bored, Restrained And Helpless
Into
The Pits Of Despair So They May Find A Way Out.
They Who Shoot Poison Into Their Lungs And Suck Saliva From
The Mouths Of The Listless And Beaten Down. Fresh To You
Grave
I Commend Thee.
Lindsay Snider