Clampdown

It was a dirty war of moat flaying the legs in emotional outburst. No stings. Only mandibles will do the job of chewing on your dark fingers. Flat, the taste of milk: a synthetic formula to eat your entrails. The plastic nose will smell the rose. Unbuttoned, message will bring the fishplates and birthmark of violence. Death has a cult of contusions. You bleed to bones for illuminating the street. Satish Verma