Cauldron Anthology Issue 7 - Time's Up cauldronfinalproof (2) | Page 21

these rancid rhymes N ikkin R a d e r Muddle me a matriarch and I’ll hide in a kettle to keep wet, this sunny desert shitpile eating away at the eyes, taking praise to place in caskets of oceanic want. I am pissy throated cawing at moonshrine toppled over by gusty grope — to fumble, knick-knacked fingertips penetrate skinfolds, excavating my impassion. Make me prod ridden topple over mess maker burning decks to hear bodies screech. Titillating on creation, not wanting of their decayed advances and up skirt hand sways. Pulling at my necklace, drag me deep into meadow sucking. Can’t keep orifices unopened; Can’t swallow expulsions of self on bedside, withering to wetting on silk. I’m no longer sure what’s worse: manifestation or memory. My birdcage decrepit and torn with teeth. Jam face into couch, the dry thrusting mild, sugar-coat the scalding on tongue. Shuck it down to drain its pulpy innards of life. Ballooning skins let loose at the seams to bleed out, meat dangling at strands, not let slip away. No longer a mouth breather No longer a fleshpod ripened to splitting — Just folds sutured to pretend the breaking didn’t happen; Instead stayed pure and penetrative, bendy to the backseat of this trope; putrid in its literacy, Gumming towards a mincing of words made body. 21 Cauldron Anthology