Now, the death poets
who write in razorwire
slashes, they gouge out
our eyes with the
blue/black blood
of scabs pierced and
prodded, to honey
the muse, and appease
hunger so insatiate
it rips out our stomachs
the reader Imperiled.
Beware, on these
pins no angels
dance, hearken
to the demonic
trance...