Foreign Languish

The tongue has turned to

Ribbons, a mouth gravely

Visible. Fresh taste of

Blood rising with each

Congealed word, transfusing

Your final offal to

Inhale, your malignant

Venom penetrating

The rotting gash.

Pre-donate the organs.

Clamp down my

Vision with your

Glare, recycle all the

Evidence; burn every

Placenta, every hair.

Flush away the damage.

Still the rocking chair.