Constriction

This day,

It’s a slim thing.

The bottled nose-creatures

They play. While I so slender,

In my speech.

Chew on diamonds, with deformed

And broken plates.

It’s a strange thing,

This dull constricting object

Struggling, hardly, through

Tremendous quakes.

Keep me, though I appear to you as something to writhe…

mü ll…I no longer smell so sweet…

The grub building on top my guise,

The parapet concealing my feigned apathy,

Is all the more reason the constant thrusting

Has become exhausted,

It’s resources spent.

And my soul a hellion against my own limbs…