i have had it with these motherfucking scaphists on this motherfucking plane of reality

soggy field
all bent
and rain
laden, you
can see
the paths
animals took
on their
way somewhere,
like wakes
left softly
by boats,
their crews
methodically working
together to
tie me
up and
embed me
between flipped
over hulls,
roughly pouring
jars of
fresh honey
all over
me, soaking
me in
honey if
you want
to be
quite honest,
draining fluid
ounces down
my throat
until i
can feel
honey pressing
against my
lungs, until
i can
always taste
honey in
the back
of my
throat and
my pores
leak, no
stigmata, just
slow rot
and the
princess spurns
my amour
and stoically
instructs that
the punishment
continue at
all costs
even if
the captains
can no
longer stomach
the way
husky flies
have forgotten
their old
devonian rivalries
and joined
forces with
wet shining
beetles to
really go
down on
me, alighting
on virgin
patches of
skin to
gnaw on
and make
burrows for
wet payloads
of their
soft warm
egg clutches
deep in
my melichrous
skin and
balmy organs
looming just
below my
surfaces like
rainbow trout
flaring silently
in the
long pylons
of light
that burn
me, that
slowly freckle
my limbs
as i
moan and
tauten in
the old
scrawny ropes
binding me,
supporting what
my saturated
flesh becomes:
something pestilential,
something you’d
catapult over
the enemy’s
walls, and
insects start
to know
my body
more as
a home
than a
higher power
and they
get front
row tickets
to watch
my desperate
personhood cede
itself to
something i
don’t know,
an older
style of
living, more
hubbub, a
bustling commune
whose nuances
are hard
to navigate
at first,
kinda like
the cult
i started
during college
i dedicated
in honor
of you
and the
soon-to
-be-dead