---

Six locusts pour butter on your face

Surely you now churn with beauty

Finding the confession of chastity

More the sweet bite of a mother poisoned

She keeps waking up in the morning

I can't vomit that fact

God must have made us

In the image of his ass

With her bruised bones and scattered morals

Her gift sits uneasy on a wire tank

And an architect whispers her next role in drowning water

She keeps waking up in the morning

I can't vomit that fact

God must have made us

In the image of his ass

You slap on wooden lip skin

And dodge pins and buckles

Brushing off the clinkers

To music of leather churches

A grill over a voice in cotton

And more money than cock

Enjoyed by the mass of paper shredders

With gorps of devilish anti-light

The moon drips on you

And gives the arm a hand

Mended grains struck bleak

For wisdom groaning

Distened looks on steamed pans

A fleshy gate stalling

Viewing the close ruins and neck tax

Where you landed in a bottle

She is the mother of impulse.