the bruise on a peach and the heart of a shadow,

words plucked by cold chameleon missile tongue, sadden

me. i believe in neither gods nor monsters, but they arrive

after all. those nights i rub lemon rind onto my feet,

the concentrate of the unbeliever. elixir of fresh death.

so i think, come, unwanted guest, used space,

chalked figure there, cloaked ghost in the corridor, 

the one i sidestep to avoid, come, face me, 

let your locust gangs move their mouth bits

like the cockroach and sample my bitter contusions,

the strange fruit on me.  cogitate? no need,

nothing there to breed off. dead flowers' old sap will

lace my dreams with a thousand wishes for this life

but the devastation by bad vibrations will unseal

them all. they turn fluid, do not leave me soused,

but move forward and make the past move past faster,

go past, alone once more, out-paced by a monster god,

my tomorrow just challenged by heavy heathen thoughts

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