Do not pretend that you don't like it when we threaten you. We see you getting pheromone stink under the collar, moaning, baldly. Motionless, picturing decay. When we creak your step, when we crack your glass, when we tap tap tap, that is a bone that is all we have though we are very shiny, and filled with beetles. We are made entirely of bone. Like an idol. Like the tusk of some wonderful past. When you cleave to us, your skin will fuse, hot calcium meth, and in the myth, you will be named for us.
What use in you you wrong wrought wood
what bevel escaped its key. A mandible
beyond its prey an arrow all shaft in each
one its torso oddly pierced and tails that spring
like thistle weed a root that wears a vacant stay
and tacky to the touch its itch to form a place
gone red with west and who will ride your behest?
Your Pegasus, your polar bear no need to build nor ride.
A crank that fails to meet its shaft a terminal inside
where thorax says that form is fact and bid that bird
it tried till eyes were tooled from spit-balled wad
formaldehyde and crime. Bury what you preach,
why not, in the hull that wooden rind.