It was a dirty war
of moat
flaying the legs in emotional outburst.
No stings.
Only mandibles will do the job of chewing
on your dark fingers.
Flat, the taste of milk:
a synthetic formula to eat your entrails.
The plastic nose will smell the rose.
Unbuttoned,
message will bring the fishplates
and birthmark of violence.
Death has a cult of contusions.
You bleed to bones
for illuminating the street.