you urge your chainsaw forward
for the abnegation of travesty beneath that mask,
you mask yourself madly
in peevishness and a loping gait.
Sad stalker of all beautiful things
king of no body. Daddy’s Sick
who once politely sliced
all your red toys in two.
What to do when rural runs out
on you. It’s as if you’re through
but all’s funhouse ricochet body farm
where fingers & tulips are planted
near the generator’s trustworthy hum,
a bludgeoned gloom linger rut and rusty,
mum’s the word inside every head.