photo source: iesquire

MAD

A procession in muted shackles
crawling in devotion
round the tits of religion
round and round her scented
pubic hairs, we emaciate to china dolls
lost in the austere canvas of routine

Stars alight on our heads
sneezing fertile pixels of scented wonder
pollinating our servile minds

Unearthing -there was never a crawling
Only a gradual uproar of clamped feet

We mount our flags on soft walls
Symbol of venereal insanity

Madness goes into business
producing its colored fabrics
hacking down your senses
The salvation of passing out,
scurries away with its baton

THINGS HAS ALWAYS BEEN APART

Then we beg to crawl
To incept like promiscuous whores
Legs clamped open by hungry passages
and the gospel-
shoved down the fallopian tube
and sealed with fear

Let me to the tattered bosom of madness engage
Find amidst her cleavage a flocculent rest
Unimportant to tempt nor to present.

Ngiga
editor@ngigareview.com
We're legion

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