Evil slithers through that portal; again
life renews its subscription to the wicked.
Its crypto-skein razes the expectorant womb
as the mother wails her tomahawk.
Her machicolated body opens, spreads
like a bad thought. He pops, hisses
and drips at the brim. Cuttlebone and phosphate
calcify around his eyes. Those eyes
that will stare love-less-than-nilpotent
into the cameras slogging through apple pies and
flower children.
He will glare without love
his dead-of-night grin laced between slipknot
gingiva.
It's the face he manifested at the nurse
when he entered like everyone, with a childbirth
awareness of breath, dry inhale, coldness and slap.
He will be claimed, and will claim
the earthly allowance of terror that hemorrhages
back again, chomping at Gaia's tit
hell-for-leather
and
helter
skelter.
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