Shadows stain my hallow core,
Bats dabbling in the hunt
Unfolding one moldy thrill at a time.
The ooze of my childhood
Primordial and faintly heretical.
Art can never be shallow.
My heart whacks with revelation.
I catch the shards
Of her indiscriminate blasts
Like cloves of unpressed garlic.
I strip their papery carapaces,
The detritus of unskilled wings
From the sticky center.
Ink is my choice of nectar
The toxicity of a sweetness
That cannot be directly imbibed.
I spit the pages from my belly
An aggregate of offal and pollen
The best and the worst in me.