& gut thick with rot
hair splayed askew
with
syphilitic canter
we climb it seems an incline
(measured in shrieks
from the part of our
brain
that is trying to exit our skull
through the eyes)
as Eos' graceless hand
turns on full bright the lantern
while the friar
bottles our comic muse
and while grandpa doth
cirrhose
we mind that there are things
smaller than we can imagine
infinitesimal civilizations
crapping their intestines out
inside ourselves
and thus we're bellicose