Inert. Pain leaves my body inert. Not

the lewd, funky crack pipe that you believed

in. All that verse in praise of the, “G-spot,”

seems a touch quaint now. Do not be deceived.

That wet dream is still yours. Malice is mine.

Uppercut cracked my jaw. Scrambled my words.

Left me grinding teeth; like the Quake’s fault line

after the quake. Rat-bastards and Owl-birds

comfort me. Shark-fish swim the “sin” back in

“cousin.” They all know this won’t last. Inert

gases. Inert words. Inert flesh gone all

puffy. “Where’s the cock? The cunt? The written

praise song?” I’m far more broken than, “Pervert,

feel thyself.” Think: Zed. Think: what malice mauls.