when the week ends on the weekend,
a weakened emulation of a present past
is saved
as a wacky wicked witch
stirring holy worm's legs
and bird's lips in a
concoction in her cauldron
-no more botched potions-
only eclectic elixirs,
(we´re)
ecclesiastic in our
absurd
esoteric avarice
to homogenise, categorize,
simplify then sterilize
enthusiastic, we
pour this dirty memory soup
in herniated flasks
in the cellar let them simmer
in their unlight let us bask.
we're aging milk instead of wine
let us quench our thirst with brine
FERMENT
a sickly glow should cast
shadows
on our rigor mortis masks
sardonic and moronic,
but we're brain deep in the black smoke
fixated on a figment of a memory of the past
like when a fig consumes a wasp
or a tick's jaws clasp
a sous-vide of a cut
from the septum of our hearts
half-baked and half assed
half-boiled and half bland
not half good, nor half bad
a medium rare remnant
of a singular fading moment
an unstable element
only feasible in the lab
like a Muslim garbed in drag
REPENT
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