Cyst brewed concoction

A writhing lizard’s tail
Dancing to the tune
Of melodies made
By instruments used
To sever it
A rhythm which I just imagine
While someone else
Strings it together

The sound of the apple bite
Overlaid on the ovoid panflute signature
A character saying the word “issue”
Stressing the S into an aristocratic snake’s hiss
On a glistening green countryside matte painting
But standing on top rather than before it
As if only the players have switched
But the posture remains constant

Cello strings and hand saw
Roadrunner CEO of Acme
A throne with each peg
Deep in slit necks
Of bodies offered comfort unbeknownst
Rocks worn smooth with lymph
Watch your step
Might end up being heir of the throne

Sickly sweet smelling acid screwdriver
The medium of poison rain to paint upon
With dense millimeters of supercooled pigments
Longing for contact of a cold simmer
The hisses will be stored and repurposed
For the strung up throat lips mouthing notes
So that even when the scene is canvassed by inquisitors
We can laugh at them for falling for it


Anchor on oil spill

On the tyre swings under the desiccated trees
Where I first rammed with subterfuge
The lies I told to steal free drinks
Arrows fused with lumbar sections
Spread like exposed rebar fanning
Drinks mix with concrete & spinal fluid
As I bend down to pick up the pieces
And there is no way back to grace


The whole universe is a block, soon to be mined in its entirety
Moving dirt around the clock, boon to be assigned to society
Ethics skirt around the mock, festoon aligned around cash propriety
Trucks lurch around the rocks, immune to the binds of sobriety

Shoot down trees to deadwood, roll out animals to roadkill
Scoot down pleas to red soot, dole and fan insults to those skilled
Compress deals to said group, sold and annul to whomever owed will
Regress the seals to wed mood, bold mechanical means to erode hill

The machines will churn out a revolution, please dodge the pickets of progress
First burn out cradles of O₂ pollution, then build ski lodge where the thicket of logs rest
Damn, turns out fables of fiscal restitution don’t ease off return tickets of forests
Yearn for water tables singed by bitumen, seize off and pivot when new coal block is pressed


Wait for the signal
The signs will cordon the flow
Information will be crafted pre-staggered
“Need to know” will shed skins as ages progress
You will accommodate the cast as how we smelt you

The legwork of what was
Impel you to follow fossil footsteps
You will be afforded better grip in the mulch
Enriched by brackish flesh and ghastly familial sabotage
You will call that plot home, where all that will grow is poison

The pale form of the goal will cajole you
And you will corroborate the collective hallucination
You will be told to habitually embellish to appease the vision
You will encounter unfinished crossroads fashioned by previous traffic
When told to hatch a new cross section of your own, you will but merely pass