what grotesque delights parade
to this year's grey harvest?
I gaze wretched on this gliatic masquerade,
a thousand jumbled pulses
and one decrepit heart,
one ruptured visage
with a centipede of teeth.

Behold!
Retch, mountain of doubtful tongues!
vomit this poison that animates you
from mouth to mouth
and I shall harvest the crippled fruit
that springs from the gaps of your teeth.

Saw-edged, the mountain and I bleed well,
giving winter its color.
We share our barbed meal,
my million mouths.
drinking the season's quiet venom,
I silently curse hues from the sky.

10/17/2006

Author's Note: Cold times coming.

Posted on 10/17/2006
Copyright © 2026 Peter Hsu