Alexander Hawkins

There's an undulating throb in the Mammonic temple
that really resonates in precise conditions; i.e.
when masticating over particularly nasty pink gristle,
when overwhelmed by an oppressive mountain of guff,
or when spread out over a thousand leagues of uncalligraphic
digital ink and drowning in an orgy that would redden
the rosy cheeks of the most Caligulan administrator.

Mostly it quivers when the established connection has ended,
set against an austere saga of osteoarthritis
cascading in shorter sharper shunts,
ballmarked with self-diagnosed finger blunting.
Singular sighs erupt from exasperated bellow-lungs
whilst omniscient, opulent greyness blinds us all,
we dogmatic, unfloundering believers in the exact.