Poetry

Graveyard of stillbirths. 
I am walking on severed legs. 
 
She was pushed off a moving train. 
Could not be raped. 
 
No I don’t see any sickly aberration. 
It was ossification of stunted intellect. 
 
Who was desperate to exit the hazy 
flesh? Peel off my skin. It is dirty. 
 
You are becoming furniture. Drunk. 
Immovable. The bed was moving. 
 
Holding the breasts of mannequins 
you walk down the stairs for a rejoinder.