Unborn Made


The holed are un-done. The street plumbed: flushed in fire. Howled the embittered: a gentile embattled mayor is made. She nods. She has soft hands and she looks like a monster.


The walk to the dead is undershadowed and is lessened or dearth. She writes beginnings. He is a vacuum of the empty. It is the becoming of the monsters. The cloned skin, skinned, is undepthed and breathed out of its own fingered hose. The launches—the founds—commenced and amended, start: go and sell. We prostitute.


The undergated community, attacked in the duration of the starved, is now left squared and untouched. Those famined has come for the year and for the year the women have seeked.

These damned.


The damned live in the sparse, unlit, streets. The eyes are horrored from the holes. Made to stare into the undeserved faucet. Mottoed: Reflect and Repent.

The boned legged, the boned faced—the men and women in the seen dead. It is their urine that is the seen. An angelic animal would have eyes like they have.


In the closet, shadowed: I am wreathed to die. But now, against an anger undamaged and un-seen I would not dare to tread against the wagered hands. They afraid and dearthed: they deathed. And she is feared to be the pregnanted souled: soiled and distanced from the health of unlifed lived.

I will not let these hands tell me where I go. The walls have seemed, again, to seek my hide and I am un-toiled and unrolled.


No comments: