Shedding Sacred Skins

Blooded early,
alone,
but it's a cinch.

Just peeling skin on
spattered rock
to a slamming cry

(sometimes there are no
 quiet places to hide,
 
 so one must
 roar to survive),

then halting hot
on our gushing spot...
perhaps teaching death
the bug-eyed splat.

My fecal ritual
is claiming high
where I mulch my dreams
to mysterious screams,

the buzzing green
ambrosia wind
will soon grow thin,

{all we have to offer
 is meat, blood,
 & waste,
 fodder for the ground
 with a taste for dust}

we long to bite
the cliffside face,
eating our gods
& shitting eachother
for a taste
of our days,

where the kids
are boiling
in the oil for home,

where the night picks
its teeth with
your beautiful bones.

This whetstone sneer
is tendering years
with a dripping coat
to feed the hope,

bladed early
work of angels
slide the rocks
& bleed their minds,

& there are hymns
deep in your skin
that weep tears of blood
for my tears of joy.