Inter-

Speeding, speeding through the cavity of your streets
and exhaling the stench of your city sick, I feel my sacrificial libation.

Wayworn widows crawl from hospital beds to charm toads
and lay themselves spread eagle, open to the perverse planet
but I whisper my wildest dreams that hang low in your jeans
and piss and snap and jump from the cassette in your tape player.

There was a hammering fastened within my chest
and you sang, from the rocking chair, old words burnt on parchment.
These metaphors dally in orifices of your mind, smoking swords -
nothing but pure imagery

and the words are a-jumble, those eyes askew
due to detectors, deflectors and deserters of your scent
for each cent that I spent stitching us back together.
The intellectual genius was kneeling before you, bathing your feet

- but I hold no rational rank because I was the morbid mucus within your throat,
the spineless, the speeding, speeding dust through the cavity of your streets.