tendon marionettes of the membrane puppeteers, still birth postures mocking the courthouse dolls. the last word in "fetish" is the new face of truth, teething ring shrapnel at the root of a winded organ.
born crawling. barely animal. a breathing shadow enforcing his will on the satellites. pre-planned seizures. pasted at a malpractice range. garments of erosion worn to a junkyard vapor. dry heave kick-lines fondled in the holes where my children were spilled. where they wade faceless and without form. there isn't anything left but a delay the surgeons have sketched. not much more to do but entertain caterpillar therapies. both corners of my mouth spread open wide with forks. all that i have now are the skins that web. a glut of departures turn loose the waning and gone. we have nothing to learn from them.