Interned in my own prison
beneath the skin,
I stop the silver wheels.
An aloof sliding, down the impotent rage
I shout, I will not buy the flakes.

The hirsute nobility
of gorillas
dancing on knives
before striking a lamb for ribs
splitting the history.

A seedless walking
to erase the footprints of sunny ghosts.
You want to raise a crop of lies
dreaming about the mother
and her sins.