The riot has been televised : madness in protea south

Untitled #12

Dancing on the green-green grass-

Apple green. To be exact.

Doused in tartar sauce,

Magenta slurps across the tap,

That spills the bright red liquid -

Splash and gurgle -

This tap unleashes,

Quenching thirst of Gangrene floor and its own breeches.

Fold and crumble; source of sauce stumbles,

Down tap goes,

its abundance consumed by the grass,

Greedy green-green grass.

Dancing on the wet, stained grass,

Laughing as the earth inhales,

Sauce and tap,

Blood and body,

Life unstrapped.

Flailing hand of dancer embraces -

Cold hard steele,

Dipped in warmth,

Stolen heat,

Blood of body,

Life unleashed.

Dancing on the sullen bed,

Sullied by a deadmans greed.

Crying as the pain resists -

Does not recede,

It does persist,

Does not give in,

To the contagious euphoria of vengence.

Emptied by ravenous tears,

Your howls have left you,

raw throated and sallow.

Now, just as the one you retired,

You lay emptied, essence seeping into -

Inhaled by-

Engulfed by -

What you now lay upon.

Greedy rage-green bed.