under the woeful stare of the bastard moon beneath malignancy in cratered tombs gray dust compacted ashes of fools that dared dream the incompetent wretches staring at the moon staring at them a degenerate pugilism in the blank faced denial

in another world another place they would be launched into the vacuous arms stitched to the maggot riddled corpse of maternal responsibility digesting the festering afterbirth rancid in the insidious self cannibalistic regurgitant spewing across the screen

the words are ugly to reflect the visage of the creator painted in waves of disappointment across the mercurial crevice between self loathing and logistics of planning a funeral where the coffin is worth more than the poet decomposing the only work he ever made that mattered