PULP

Found in bed howling at the moon

Eyes fixated on Fortuna

Primordial skulls filled with cigarette butts

Smokestacks protesting sky

Existence a tunnel we navigate alone

Spun shreds of silk from untaxed 

and excommunicated extremities

Libido tonguing cavernous cacophony  

everyone sleeping

Calamity seeping from mountain top

Buried inside the cage we call god

the fissures speak fast, like junkie pimps and dying stars

And all our daughters have become whores

In the pits we've borrowed to swallow our sorrows

and for all my flesh I'm no better

barring the muted moments

My hands turn paper to pulp