what kind of manic thing could sprout in darkness?
chaos is deceptive; our guts are gullies of fear, we cannot help but reject it.
a virus is a sequence, a structure set in a mare’s nest, and time was clouds passing quickly overhead.
i called myself patient zero.
i began with my right hand in my pants, testing objects by their proximity to pleasure. i tested others by the same concerned measure. with great eagerness, i ate you(s). i was a fool in carnivore behavior.
i pulled from signs, took them from my crown down through my hand and scrawled self-righteous constellations.
i learned to complicate a scream, released heat in doses,
for staggered feeling is a kind of morphine.
i could cry, but was more always more effective with a riddle in a rhyme,
you know half the hunt is thrusting at the perfect time.
would you believe me if i told you that the stuff of god is virus,
that the very manic thing we digest is all the while inside us?