PULP

Found in bed howling at the moon
Eyes fixated on Fortuna
Primordial skulls filled with cigarette butts
Smokestacks protesting sky

Existence a tunnel we navigate alone
Spun shreds of silk from untaxed
and excommunicated extremities
Libido tonguing cavernous cacophony
 
everyone sleeping

Calamity seeping from mountain top
Buried inside the cage we call god
the fissures speak fast, like junkie pimps and dying stars
And all our daughters have become whores
In the pits we've borrowed to swallow our sorrows

and for all my flesh I'm no better
barring the muted moments
My hands turn paper to pulp