Kreatürlich

Plants are growing out of meat and I bestow my hands upon them. Bare concrete is the salt in the everlasting wound. Still the delusive hope of being less disgusting with severed hands won't dare to settle in. Too much of the rest remains. I want to be an automaton already. Well, now at least I can give the red paint one can use to embelish the wall with a joke. Swept up dust can also be a mountain. I decorate it with my plants. Almost as if being on vacation. If you don't go forward, you go backwards, but I want advancement and to preserve what is to be mastered. Out of the belly an intrusive hair grows and the freezing cold soldering iron tears it out - progression forever.

Submitted by Corpse Defiler — Apr 26, 2025

This little fissure – the source of fragility The torturable body – rigid – conscious that movement means agony A dull murmur wrenches the eardrum Limp skin adorns the torso Inspect me, penned in my frame Listen – inside my widely opened thorax you can hear the echo of the rattling chains The rupture of the world passes through me too

Submitted by The Void — Apr 26, 2025