Ventilation bursts my shout outside the hole
the frontal lobe of pain puts the pain on
the clamour my dark pink lipstick
the soil declining to wake me up
Tug of war.
A lie in my pharynx.
the knuckles of my hand
like the cover of a coconut from my backyard
Hard yet soft
Veracity lies in the mouth of wise old man
I hear, the squawk, tearing off the beetle leaf
in the innermost layer of my earlobe
the faint smell of roses striking off
the underlying scintillating pieces of star
Explosions I hear,
Darkening the repetitions, sketching my faded outline
with the black soil, no fertility I apprehend.