The death March, April, May.

Bare shoulders
laid on a slab board
kneading of manipulation and massages
messengers and fortification
defences, tensed
high fenced
do not touch me there.
spine tingling, bringing
a death march, April, may
allow you to invade
a blade, of precision, cuts the meat
in two and diced
double sixes
gamble, that they never find you
only, perhaps the tissue
that you cried upon
ligaments and fissure
a passing passion of the issue
I published
for the hunters to follow and find.
they did
bars me from doing the insane thing again
in the marsh lands I spread
the horror
now locked up in the corridor of the row
and the light will go out
I have a sponge upon my head
the priest reads the rights
the contemplation of the last meal
is truly, eaten, fed
cackle with a laughter
of electricity, of the darkened mourning
tis night time of horror
tis the right time for the dead.