There is a planetary stillness that eludes my heart 

And much of the rot-birthing distance I envelop spills deliciously and cantankerously over into the denial sunken cavities 
that rock and flower about my solidly inverted torso. 

Busyness makes me strange and sloppiness fills me with sprightly defeat; burrowed beneath retrospection. 
My eyes beat and ferociously twitch with the pain of showing bones 
And popular shame.

Smothered I am 
persistently in force and doubt. 

My mouth is double-stuffed and the corners sit razor-slashed by the uncomfortable razzmatazz of loathing –
plastics giving off acerbic fumes ingested like over-caring

Or the detrimentally absorbed anguish of beguiling hate.

That selfishly I take and bluntly I bare. 

Tone screwed vocal glugs misfire
Piloted by pivoting worthlessness
The tinsel-doused ego of boxes modern.

We stand behind the platform line thinking it a twisted matrix
Of solipsistic speech

Sloping rhetoric; presidential in its sexiness.

Occasionally I am mended

Through rigorous fingers, we are corrected.

Eyes shadowed and uniformed makes me china-like and purchase proud.
Crawling and cripple-cracked – pinned and strewn, sewer-sewn And terrifically sparse
Empathetically swollen and sherbet sick.

I am munched.

Undone by electronic vehicles eroded erotically by squared fazes and unsubstantiated street-idioms Powerful and powdered
Silly-signed and clothed in secularism

We all followed up with fertility and the fervent blindness of blood – wilfully buried in my personalised banality-laden burger box of saturated solemnity and middle ranking distaste.

To be enjoyed hot.