Read Time:38 Second
Ritual blood transfusion, I submit
pious to time’s placid underpants.
Sometimes my skin slithers that I feel
snake-calculating gestures of foreboding,
mid-sleep pranking me as startles provoke
slap or itch every spasmodic account.
Mustard-seed-sized, bloodshot thinglets
field-tripping through my aforested limbs,
beneath the clothesline of my back is a
touchy-feely piping. My poachers must be
humming “we’re overnighting on this huge
slab of juiciness”. And I overhear my reflex
thumb-squelching out unkempt odour from
any that is ill-willed for my acts of retaliation.