Shriek
Throw this flesh into wind for to be tattered.
Flense & flay me; sprayed hot onto cold asphalt. Ribbon shred.
This isn't loving Summer, no. Springtime is
planting-
gestation--
gasping births---
violence.
The invasion that is existing.
The Green of April is no gleaming emerald;
It is fury. It is ravenous hunger. It is manic desperation to be
It is the razor's edge of bleeding insistence.
Remove these bones. Festoon your thoughts with the sting and the ache. These verbs are command form. It is Spring.
That ripping. That fibrous, fluid tear. You hear it, yes?
Tilt me over and spill my ******* guts out.
Clouds of grey and bright red rain--squall of ichor. Knife wind.
Let us weep thunderstorms. Chagrin these Gods of Drought.
Howl
Scream for us both. Wail until the throat bleeds. Blood decanter.
Pour us out of you until the sidewalk hides from the cold.
Chilly today! Should've brought an anorak, eh?
Gale force wind. Tear me up. Spare no expense, accept no substitutes.
Leave no intact iota. Return me to my component parts. Atomize me.
Untangle us, we are a tragedy.
...And, after all, this is a slasher, yeah?
I mean. At least distract me. Ya know?
Shiiiiiiiiit, I dunno.
