Manifested Poem by John Weber

Bleached and burnt
in the Summer sun,
I flop about in the cracks
that ripple like rays
made jagged by fanciful
expectations diverted.

My tongue smacks parched,
bloated and raw against
the fish-bone grate taunting-
that yellow-thatched roof
at the apex of gluttony
and guttural projections.

Language distills down
to a series of random
cliques and ticks praising
mundane worship in material
delicate by design to frustrate
and ensure further consumption

at the troth of the heathens,
unaware of the vast difference
between orders and gifts,
until knees bend under
the pressure of the heavens
demanding substance in life.