There with them is error 
we are sacrosanct 
a taunting of ravens to you 
my swarms have fit the holster 
my faith burnt every house 
like no other manger 
i am emptier with doubt 

bare them 
sevens 
three to a pall 
marks the 
venom 
lush and terminal 

when i became your larvae 
you fed me from your plates 
now my slouch is nervous 
sinking by the face 
wrinkled by this gravel 
skinless trace of time 
wear your cobwebs proudly 
in your cheap and brittle sight 
my glands emit this carnage 
these pews bend back your knees 

that uniform it wears you 
when the ultimatum pleads 

bare them 
sevens 
three to a pall 
marks the 
venom 
lush and terminal 

that cesspool it becomes you 
just north of the eyebrows 
squat the hole for a pucker 
when the rations go blonde 
the salted stitch is patient 
waiting to engulf 
there is plasma from this hoax 
pretending to be us 

embalming all the fluids i must i must 
i prefer to burn it i must i must