72

Washed up,
adrift on an ocean of scarabs
clinging to death, slinging the 26 pillars
plus the 10 lights of arabs
oily pebbles skittering beneath the glitter
tsunamis tossed up from o kami's kazes
crunching me under
a trillion blind bites and scratches
in the form of tender currency
no more iron, only plastic water leaks
from torn patches
I think this is where I belong
a pale frail male body, a lost song
soaking too long
in the trilling thrill
of itching darkness
crawing in
through every orifice
hollowed out
filled in with splendid
pixellated corpses
consuming, subsuming, abusing the whole womb
I wash ashore
a dark and bright star scouring for more
pulling back the curtain,
showering till sore