By | 1 February 2020

In the hinterlands of my organ cabinet
the sneaky tentacles roil and writhe,
wreathed in volcano spew and
scar tattooed from death wrestles with whales.

Scissors don’t split that salt-cured rubber.
Though rum may confuse their pincer beak’s searching,
certainly they never drown,
and my lungs are tenderer to soaking.

I harpoon myself at night.
I hit my own spleen as often as
the ceaseless eyes of the bastards
squicking about so slither in there.
Lying to yourself sounds like brine laughter.
Sounds like coils.

Deep bred creatures broker no easy truces,
eating shameless the reserves I thought hidden,
slapping words before they get out of my tubes.

Titanic is the struggle I imagine,
Beard flash and metal strike and
Ink and blood and finality.

Salt water spills from my nose at dinner
and I simply wipe it away and we all pretend it’s not there.

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