Another night of negotiation leaves
the left-hand path gored clear,
to where the willows laugh,
where undead cadres wage people’s war
on warm-bodied rulers,
where crones scrub clean our skins
with a liquid-class lather.
Where enlightened wights wander,
with mold on honeyed bones,
hammers in mellified hands.
But denied our hard-earned horrors,
accursed we walk the right-hand road
to where meat-faced wardens reign
where hoghead men swing bats at babies,
swine-wives screech for slop,
where cops snort apish rage on radio,
sedantic warhorns wail,
where work whisks the weeks away,
Luna pukes goopy sunblood
all over high-rise headstones.
So, forsaken unborn, pray
wait in unlife awhile.
Let us first loose our hellhounds,
enraged and unbound, to rove
each insidious acre of earth.
When sky is upholstered in foreworldly flesh,
when exsanguinated dawn dangles
meat-hooked from horizon,
only then shall you enter,
free of want and worry.