Insurrection

wrenches out like a brackish tooth, or an unspoken grief, clandestinely sanded to my gut. Everything is tumbling—circumspect—on dirty carousels doused in murmuring lavenders and creamy piths.

A bouquet of reconnaissance sweetly sanctifies the soiled frost to a church of no one.

This is a hex of lord and lady, of pesto and sex, of smoked out basements
and plastic ghosts, scissoring the sea.

100 scaturient orbiters, 100 trembling pyres, knock up thunderstorms
inside hostels and cafes. Another millennial goes missing, swathed in coffee and cinema, sucking toxic gems woven in blood, candied black.