CLAMPDOWN

It was a dirty war 
of moat 
flaying the legs in emotional outburst. 

No stings. 
Only mandibles will do the job of chewing 
on your dark fingers. 

Flat, the taste of milk: 
a synthetic formula to eat your entrails. 
The plastic nose will smell the rose. 

Unbuttoned, 
message will bring the fishplates 
and birthmark of violence. 

Death has a cult of contusions. 
You bleed to bones 
for illuminating the street.

Satish Verma