I am my own maggot. Consuming myself.
Eyeing the optic nervously from my
disadvantageous disposition.
Discarded amongst the softened bar snacks of a
forgotten apocalypse.
Ad nauseam. Self deficient.
Leave yourself notes. To find your way home.
Old man chicken hands.
Jitterbugging in the Nightmare Palace whilst
the bombs fall.
Bury yourself where no one shall ever find you.
But no fucking about, like.

At this point the clowns are still in transit.
...Steady away boys! POOP POOP!
We shared a joke previous regarding ancestry,
failures and pits.
Perhaps too soon for you to consider your
children planted around the outskirts of all
of this?
Generation Loss.
Artistic licence revoked.
The spiders around my eyes would much prefer
to be grifting the flies than
Spinning perfect mysteries looped around
asphyxiation.
Another surprise disfigurement. A ticket to
ride. Buy your fucking own.
Here she comes, gawd bless her. A hearse
a'foam with facsimile clowns face up on blocks
amongst the cinders.
Castle of sand. Granny flat of glass.
Going down.
Damned if you do, my dearest vermin. And of
course, just so Damned if you don't.
Damned if you do, my dearest vermin. And of
course, just so Damned if you don't.

I surfaced to the noise of digital flutter, one
eye in this mire, another gouging at the
horizon. Whilst the final dances in the horror
of right plug, wrong socket. Amidst all this
my heart twitches out to the binary. Wow.
Tongue to interrogate the gutter, lost in the
code. The party is somewhere so above whilst
remaining so below. Hands to the clouds and
farthest beyond, then. We'll bring the heavens
down to meet us, then turn ourselves without.