nietzsche

Ichor.

where the marble boys
give pink dust
from their wounds
the trees collide in circles
sinking slowly through their middles
spinning leaves, troubled stitches.

their heads lay on the branches
stiff and sober with
years of longing and
bubbles of infection
that can never burst.

they have been sewn shut.
their mouths left
in a purple swollen pucker
their lashes oily and slowly
crumbling into the sand around them.

insensitive clouds
move quickly overhead
so as not to disturb
the forms of molestation
the bodies of disease and contamination.
they pass on by white, grey, orange
laughing and breaking apart
lazily and unharmed.

every now and again the trees
will blink- sending
shivers of orgasm through
the bloated carcasses
that unknowingly dance
day after day
in the sweltering sun.
their pustules will rise
up and down to the rhythm
of the dead leaves.

these boys are overjoyed
by the sound of nothing.
the noiseless dust of time.

complacency wracks their thighs.

sighs can be heard through
the blood bubbles they breathe
in and out
if you listen
hard enough
with your eyes.

everything here is a mess.

the cheetahs won't even
stop
to pick the bones of the youngest
survivors.
their skin the most sordid, the greenest
the vilest containers of liquids
foreign and
utterly
sweet.
it's like sugar to the restless
and the unloved

the boys can feel the birds.
they call to them
with their broken
minds
the layers of hot pink mush
trying to get around
the plastic melting through their skin
and they call
they call to them
wishing in their own special way
that these friends would
dip low dip wings low
into the atmosphere and
pick them up
with beaks
of love and revulsion.
(the boys interpret them as god)

on the ground
everybody falls short
of their expectations
the women free to escape
past the dreaded age of sickness
and leave the dank mist
eyes watering and
hearts erased.
the boys are grabbed
and shredded by these trees
these circles of leaves
playing hide and seek.
they find themselves
to be the prey
to be the epitome
of the cold tree's fucklust.
they squirm
and open up
like the petals of
a black tulip.

nothing is left
but ransom
notes
written on
their itty bitty bodies.
they are pale and numb.
they are satisfied and wronged.
they are living cadavers.
they are breathless soul mates.
they are red cakes of ecstasy
laid out in circles
for the monsters to devour.

everything here is a mess
everything here writhes in
layers of junk and sickness.
the trees cough
and the boys will offer themselves up
as martyrs.
everything here is violated and destroyed.

this place
this beautiful place
is Eden.