Who will believe
a gnarled groundskeeper
traced by depletion.
A tortured spider head transgender creature
slowly turned into poison; now everything
it opens splotches all over the floor.
Necroplasm flows in a cemetery conduit
leading to a cave dead with purple
where the light at the end of the tunnel
is another tunnel smouldering beyond control.
He/she/it can no longer speak for itself,
but the semi-rigamortised mouth spews out
unexpected pitcher plants, partially digested.
He/she/it invokes the symptom on accident:
Involuntary Protoplasty. The chlorophyll gas
unfurls furry murder before dispersing.
