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photo source: iesquire
MAD
A procession in muted shackles
crawling in devotion
round the tits of religion
round and round her scented
pubic hairs, we emaciate to china dolls
lost in the austere canvas of routine
Stars alight on our heads
sneezing fertile pixels of scented wonder
pollinating our servile minds
Unearthing -there was never a crawling
Only a gradual uproar of clamped feet
We mount our flags on soft walls
Symbol of venereal insanity
Madness goes into business
producing its colored fabrics
hacking down your senses
The salvation of passing out,
scurries away with its baton
THINGS HAS ALWAYS BEEN APART
Then we beg to crawl
To incept like promiscuous whores
Legs clamped open by hungry passages
and the gospel-
shoved down the fallopian tube
and sealed with fear
Let me to the tattered bosom of madness engage
Find amidst her cleavage a flocculent rest
Unimportant to tempt nor to present.
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