Written by B.S.

fine red decluttered mix biscuits

plastic shoed beast too close to

hearts n’

skull worms and itchy feet

yanked throats collapse double same

now shut from this

Wrestle

with open sea breath pong serpents

the pig neck flies with no animation

cross faded to stepladder jump shots

terror rains effective horizontal Cains

nothing left

Not

squeezed bag fuzz loops

but rinsed rung cheetah teats

trickles toxic drips down the paw

Waldorf from high leaf figs

and veneer black Tux to split leg dress

Against

living to dying

apparent and hiding

mock wrapped king mummies

naked and dead possessed

as the jackass turns

nothing is pressed, except

Flesh

of seven limbs severed from

sieved sugar salt souls

force kneaded together

to bake devils bread

the putrid loaf, and us,

sliced churned toast

And

what wills the buzzy bee

to make gold from dust?

Blind trust in the breeze they must

who lifts up wings and parts trees

with no struggle

or Frankensteined unease

Blood

hell’s kitchen

where friction lines the bowl

bang clatters

slop and fear splatters

all over stressed out horned managers

lard prints pace the floor

while mismanaged orders go out the door

only toil!

chaos bred is what’s sold in store

But…

well after foreclosure

the last loaf rots in the street,

while the little alchemist’s honey

remains easy sweet

Text © B.S.

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