culturalrot:

Your words are empty hollow bleatings
Of a mental crutch
They’re open-festered indigestion
With a velvet touch
An ether-eating Eskimo
Would gag upon your sight
Convulsed into oblivion
From laughter or from fright
A coma with a sweet aroma
Is your only dream
Malignant with the misconception
That a grunt can gleam
Your lichen-covered corpuscles
Are filthy to my fist
Infection is your finest flower
Mildewed in the mist.