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

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Homecoming

Welcome home,
To nowhere in particular
It might seem anomalous
But everything is exactly as it was

Don’t look at the upside down pylon,
With its head buried in shame
We would offer the same,
If it actually were upside down

The abrupt foundation of the road,
Which leads to a perpendicular interminable horizon
Wait, I mean, which leads to your erstwhile homestead
Now stop with the daft questions and embark!

The immaculate sign invites you
Ah fuck it, the rain has washed the wet paint
Let’s both go and revivify,
To pull same scheme on the next fool exiled

Pass

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