Poker Face

For the century it’s innovation. For the following, the creatures make lists like toes of forgiveness. Thursday we went to the market for mounds and mounds of cold gray Hammocks.
Tuesday is the orphan in the weeds gnawing one of her own legs. A crawly mouth intent on trepidation.
There’s a good reason not to let the baby’s go for the mother’s sake. More zombies is more meat. And the baby in the window’s not renounced yet. Not like the fog growing, incandescent space dust, space fodder. Your ambiguous intention.
Toes, benighted, delinquent, I intend for this to shape up knifely, Er nicely.
Monday is the bluest day, the bluest meat in the corridor, swinging. I’m disentangling from my politics of decency so the children born dead can be used as the soldiers of the new army, Precambrian and gooey.
You know.
December writhing its days. Friday like a corpse swung rope. The rope of doom on the lean out like morning, cold and quibbling. You’re morning, insistent, rotten peaches on the bowl of your knuckles. The introverted hand, it’s bumps a boil of rotten flesh, flesh tigers and the night.
All night.