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.