The Jungle Has Eaten the Stars

It’s late. It’s very late. The jungle has eaten

the stars. Canopies stretched like beggar’s hands up, up

into the abyss, carrying back with them the heat

and horror from the sky. They are eating them. They,

animals, them, stars. Infernos driven blue, then red,

breathing atmosphere for the first time before being

devoured by those under the trees. They are smoking

under the trees. They, the animals, masked but naked, fingers

sliding into pockets of skin, invading homes. Devouring the

star light, the bones under their skin glow red. Like lava. Like pain.

Like blood boiled on the stove. The jungle is littered with

sex and cum and sacrifice. With deliverance. With ecstasy. Fear

without a face looks strikingly like laughter. Fingers under

shirt collars. Collars around these animal’s necks. Fetch.

Fetch me the stars. Rape the sky of its light, its silence. Fill the

feeds with Janice Joplin and a finger nail dipped in dust.

These are the insects. The virus. The fungi that colors dead

wood orange. These are the animals, in the early hours of

morning, sucking dry the men, the women, the dogs.

Skin eats skin until it is no longer a pack, but an organism.

Writhing on the rug painted blue and gold. Bodies cum on

bodies while the minds dig their own graves. The minds –

they never touch. Only the tongues. The teeth. The animals are

cannibals. The trees, slick with sin. The sky, starless. The night, no longer night.