It is bloody and all of its fuses
score with me,
the super fantastic gore
and idle flowers over muddy cradles,
I love death, its roots
and determined sleuths.
The art and wisdom
beginning with metal shards
or cancer teats,
the root of death
a megaphone into the earhole of mortality,
it will come in aquariums
or cages,
in bunches of eager caskets.
I want a graffiti stamped obelisk
in memory of my morbid constitution
and vinegar wit...
@Steven Francis poems 2010
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