The harlot feels her head cave in,
Squeezing blood from her ovaries.
Final action of God’s final child
Separates the innocent from the Dead.
Slopes of hell aren’t as slippery as you think
It’s harder to fall than to climb.
Utter my last demand, pool of spite,
“Warm, top me off.” “Let me go.”
Generations without matrons, tubes tied at birth.
Erections of the Gods, humans will blush.
Soft speaking preacher, loving sinner.
Taste the tides of the mine fields, lost locations.
Comments about this poem (Flatten by C. Bake Baker )
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