On the Vivisection of Celestial Beings

Glowy skin, like wrapping paper or a corn husk
Slides easily off striations of bright red liquorice,
Teeth are yoinked for necklaces, eyes are gouged for pasta,
Holding a pastoral scythe below the crux of knuckles.


Buckle down for the night, knife stuck in its side
The breaths become shallow and desperate.
Sleep’s interrupted by the whine of one’s own corruption
But at least for once there can be eye contact.


Grave tract: Deist winds: Far-flung forest: Sacrosanct mud.
A slow burn continues despite the flame dying,
Stuffing wood dice embers into the incision by the voice box,
Pressing flowers on the vanity counter underneath its jaw.