I order a manicured mountain
to fuck my face & it
seizes my head in a kernel grasp
somewhere I think pop goes the meatscape
yet it presses on relentless as ordered
no rise above or dissolution into
the rancid intimate ground
Fantasy reeks if
you shove your face in
its pits
& I want to be gagged
jammed into
the dank nest where it’s reining
fungal matter it’s perforating
greasy white
film to tatters
to face a noxious bush constant babble flurry of hands joining end
to ends body
snagged on an excruciating sound
scummy and bright
Let’s send each other weepy
selfies! purple candy hearts
make me sweat it out
I’m infected by the pixelframe when it opens
& I open saying ahhh
tongues out receptive
round buzzing it distends
flatlined frequencies self propped pretty on the deathbed
Rebury me in your
corn-fed databanks
our shared & roiling
soil laced with lime-green rat poison
color of monopoly it corrodes
the plotted senses while steady feeding on
our manufactured breakdown
I don’t know another way
in to the germ behind
liquid crystal screens
Phil Spotswood is a poet from Alabama. His most recent work can be found in Action, Spectacle, mercury firs, and Broken Lens Journal. His chapbook, The God of Knots, is forthcoming with bedfellows. You can find more of his work at https://www.philspotswood.com.
