Given into the dark

Rotting, slouches of flesh

Eating, crunching, mandibles slicing

Casings filling the remaining bits

Soil, aches full of the noises

Revving, is the true job

Dirty, dark, disgustingness is the frame

Really, you are just a nessasarry part of the whole 

Carrion, I salute you 


Five circles of darkness

Battle, a war, a war. We fight, and die and feast on our own humility. We take and give to the hatred of ourselves and pretend it is the others. Take a light, a light, touch on the world, if you are to escape this infamy.

Depletion, reaping the sown life of our gangrenous infection. Any world who would take us, would fight against us eventually as we justify our means by the ends we imagine. Our imagination is a universe which is perfect, the imperfect nature of our world is known, yet we still strive on to create this deception for ourselves.

Balance, candies on a train of life, we must take heed of the warning our mother gives us. She be but a breath away from taking us to a fiery death from which we will be lucky to revive. Revive, survive, a place we must strive to capture the wastes of our infamous industry.

Nature, is a cruel but necessary goddess. She exists in our anthropomorphic imagines but we do not listen to all our own thoughts. The sign on the door is one that can only have one meaning, but we ignore. Ignore.

A key, voyeuristic doorbell, and a blue box, from which we wish to escape within, a universal season. Habitat, full of rats and cats and bloodsucking bats. Our last survivors will know only a few pages of our ignominious law. A thorn on our nation, a call to our station, but never a pause to libation. We will be the creators of our elation, a rapturous capture of all of our extractions. In fires of midnight, we will clasp hands and give thanks to a musky pouch. A key, inside, holds our last hope. A library full of the works we have ignored for so, so long.

NB: The words to start off this poem were given to me by Blair King, whose blog you can visit here:

The Market Says No (smash up)

Writer economies some prose to the editors

Depend between two continually aware differences

Substantial bookshops to give publisher extent sucsesfully to the poet

Publishers are fiction in a substantial way

Editors managers interfere with the extent of the writer

Poetry rights require novelists prime publisher

More haphazard stupidity and less evenly treated

Novel prizes processed a omission of cases

Write some bulk things even to letter clubs

Lobbying privately reviewed books at festivals first thing in the morning

Sporadic little writer

Efficient newspapers rarely appear to poets late in the evening

Lay a collection of poetry with your cousins poems when usually the prime minister will meet them

(Smash up words from: )