Shedding Sacred Skins

 




 Blooded early,
 alone,
 but it's a cinch.

 Just peeling skin on
 spattered rock
 to a slamming cry

 (sometimes there are no
  quiet places to hide,
  
  so one must
  roar to survive),

 then halting hot
 on our gushing spot...
 perhaps teaching death
 the bug-eyed splat.

 A fecal ritual
 claiming high
 where I mulch my dreams
 to a distant scream,

 the buzzing green
 ambrosia wind
 will soon grow thin,

 {all we have to offer
  is meat, blood,
  & waste,
  fodder for the ground
  with a taste for dust}

 we long to bite
 the cliffside face,
 eating our gods
 & shitting eachother
 for a taste
 of our days,

 where the kids
 are boiled alive
 in the oil for home,

 where the night picks
 its teeth with
 your beautiful bones.

 A whetstone sneer
 is tendering years
 with a dripping coat
 to feed the hope,

 bladed early
 work of angels
 sliding rocks
 & bleeding minds,

 There are hymns
 etched on your skin
 weeping tears of blood
 for my tears of joy.