the pit of tutivillus

todo el tiempo quelque new atrocity
met by flies
the seer wit understanding
almost undercut hir prophecy

my muzzle will be made of moss
in the whinter
you think it’s music but it’s like lilies when they fester
all ovular moonlight tusking the apparatus

when I say lily I do mean the same
each arm asway on tender footing
swete my sweteing
who alone is burning plastics