Mass Grave Mushroom Cluster
Grievous bodily harmony
Rudimentary apparatus for
A honeycomb fungal spore
Fermentation of effluvia
Proven falsetto homily
Slick, ingrown, and anodyne
Palms in painted glass
Use me for at least beautiful benefit;
let flesh fill or like water bend
to teeth or a hand’s impression.
Like warmth I burst through or wish into
all over like pleasure.
Walk hand over hoof
tall and crawling, blurred beast.
Take me in hands,
blood vessels, mouth, take me
anywhere I’m cold. High times
amid active threats, wood plank walk.
Squalls roll in from mother ships yonder
the concept atomic:
brief ecstasy then gone.
Split like limbs are insects. Spare no snarl.
Splat like bug!
Abuse of a Corpse
You have the skinnest thin, twig for branches;
You’re such a bunch of stumps!
Just from the shadow I’ll remember you/
Made a vellum map, scrawled X,
Left it with your remnants among red/
Herring, cruel herring, sleepy and creepy herring.
You are an apoplectic mass, pure geometric gas;
You’re a great deal of gardens grey.
You are not confused:
God is an illusion,
Ask the Nephilim—
Chewing soothes them.
You broke the entire time/
You broke your own heart.
Crabula of the Bloodsuck Nebula,
Forager of forbidden fruit, I sacrifice
Progeny and cattle for your prosperity;
King of the pig farm
Because I slop the most mud, take the first bite,
Place the crime scene inside me.
You had the flimsiest whimsies, dear old stab-backer;
Your disparate bits will someday flood from soil.
Perpetual Festival
Tempting, to doubt whatever’s going on here—
approach with jaguar and cricket intentions.
I didn’t come with a plan, but an idea:
coagulate until I am the oneness, last half-picked scab.
You’re supposed to smoke until the bag is empty.
From chalice to crucifix, yours decently – the In Fix
Ahh, the good life! Autopilot, pool side, a spell
forgetful off the hemlock, crooked in the orchard,
one among many decent lucidities.
I will miss all of us Xanthium on the abdomen of colossi.
You’re supposed to smoke until the bag is empty.
Consider my exploit as a very careful consequence.
Such ensnaring bliss: I invoke my wrongs as vibrant
balm applied to the peeled skin of our inconsistencies.
If you can manage, you may take your leave
as long as your concept of leaving is limber.
poems by nicholas alti 