a certain
uncertainty
seems predestined
to cast a pall
in waves of
humming static
fat black flies
feasting happily
upon the rotten
fruits of yesterday’s
paltry harvest
rumbling loudly
a chainsaw of
tangential
anxieties
tearing through
the stagnation of
retched dreamshit
icicles of filth
hanging heavily
from turgid fantasy
obscuring absentia
in a mirage of
broken fangs
severing through
the umbilical
between these
uncertain
certainties

three times three
i mutter my love
the only thing
i know is real