you are swollen, insipid and vain
yet youu twirl instruments of torture
as though you possessed honour—tenure
your teeth rot,
your flab glubs like
olive oil
churned rotten
oh,
my killer—my rancid one:
yellow is your colour,
true and five-pointed.
How is it that you disdain
hygiene in favour
of something
I cannot quite
wrap my death around?
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