Perhaps, after all, it's nothing but a ruptured artifice;
by T. M. Isaac
A misconstrued prism formed of fractured isms.
It could as well, of-course, be nothing more than art at ease,
A pseudo-lust conceived with nihilism.
The joys of burlap ambrosial virility,
Emit an overwhelming puss-like fragrance,
An encumbrance of prodigal sterility,
Intermixed with virtuous echoes of arid cadence.
The way that tattered paleness is laced with sapphire-blue
seems better suited than the pristine wholeness,
Of scentless skin, oozing with the leaden residue,
Of hallowed beauty slain by unfeigned soreness.
The blossoming fertility of bloated rotting flesh,
Smells sweeter yet, than that awful perfumed guise.
A sanguine-scented purity, teeming with fresh
Sensations and recollections bound to die.
The insincerity of those slithering limbs, displaced
With the rigor of long since lost disdain of movement,
And all these succubus-like senseless whispering, replaced
with restless sighs that mean what fear to lose meant.
Dig-up! dig up with these fervent, rapturous hands
Driven by a growing nonchalant discomfort.
Volatile ecstasy dissipates as it expands,
Evaporating with dissatisfaction of this comfort.