spillage fayre


spillage fayre  ( eryaf egallips )


in the village of the spillage
& the little gland of weasels


where the air is a snare
& there’s death in their stare


in the kingdom of the karens
with their whispering projections


in the bites of their tongue
with a bouquet of dung


sings a pickled cabbage poet
in the scrawling of the morning


in the shapes of the daze
with a piffle pigeon pen


for a bend indeed
is a cowpat on the back


but the leas beam green
as the turds scrawl down










( author nodes )


so eat my weird & go fuck yourselves


















































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