SkinWalker by Max Torti

in the back of my Mazda Minivan, steaming like,

Hot Worms wriggling up, drowning like,

Indiana Jones in some pit, slowly gurgling out the last slips of air.


my lungs can heave, however, cleaved in two they will operate independently,

and hot worms will fill up both spaces,

little balloons of flesh,

ready to pop with one simple instrument – and so –


fucking like a maimed dog i will whimper.

ad carve in my stomach a new slit,

an inch above my belly button and one as well below,

a fresh warm cavity, feeling ripe for insertion.


fat sacks slowly filling with blood, fluid like

slipping on two naked bodies, moonlit.

i will cough up Hot Worms, then swallow them back down-

quickly absconding through the fog.

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