the destroyer > text > Soham Patel

SMITH:

Mother’s quisling against
says don’t wrestle without
a shirt on with the boys on
the block. Angels disrobe
so recurring oneiric sound-
tracks sound saint-like in any
form. A sense of apocalypse
as mental fight put some
land horses back on path.
Every other mania wired
through to the amplifiers.

::::

Belladonna and morphine made me
crawl on the lawn after I spilled
boiling water at the wishing well.
If the world is a denuded waste-
land, mother could have kept me
worn over. I burlesque, come
in the cabaret, masquerade
this metal rendition of a sad-eyed
lady with a cowboy mouth.