The Making Of A Beast Poem by James McLain

It is here in America where the sweet animal's are,
and horror waits for thee in sleep attacks.
There was no plot except by they, where numerous bodies
before I came to be, in death now lie.

She is not now old, to old to care of sex a cotton veil
on skin it breathes thread bare.
Lured by honey in,
He fell asleep eating ice cream in bed with
two fingers in the pie.

He drempt of human head's, head's the axemen held,
green moldy wall's
so that when it rain's there's nothing left inside.
The crown of hairy cat's the wood loop slides.

I knew her not red lip's I kissed, that parted skies,
Not unlike a dog who digs up bones she slept beside.
Clutched her hand,
the land produced harsh wind and that's is how he died.