by Jon Corelis06 Nov 2013
Twice a day, they bathe in the airy sewer,
the half-mechanical centaurs
spitting and sucking poison.
Each larval fetus, slung
in its metal carapace,
grins like a grill, with blank and bulbous eyes.
Proud in isolation,
the human cells turn cancer,
burgeon, bleed, veer from their aggregate order,
and spread in a dry caked smear in the sun. We have covered
our mother’s body with scabs
and set our vermin to roam there.