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Mourning in pink thumping blasted bathroom
mother of us all the steady burning

of neck, of breasts, of furnace soured. My womb
is pure digital. Bolts. Sour-grass. Lolling.

Turn. I’ve sucked Phillip’s head that salt keeps fresh.
Metal in my mouth. Gag. I can’t keep

down. These ruins. Watch me spit up horse flesh.
Centaur’s dead pony. Let the dead gods creep

on stubs. I’m the field, the joy where calf-boys
gallop. I am one fucked up landmass.

Stillbirth that wakes in a hand-me-down dress.
Stillbirth that still sings. I’m chaos and noise.

And still I sing. I want to wreck your ass
like a mad god or a cruel headmistress.