Apricot Death Amniotica

Sour tentacles,
Steeped within the history of the cock,
Strands of the pulp dangle,
Displaying an oak like nation of tales,
Octopus arms lash wildly for leverage,
Like roots deeply wrapped around the testicles,
Sweet white ink pasteurised by the rot,
Sealed inside the bag for days,
Where cells can split more than once,

Your anus bears a thorax,
Hulked massive,
And whiffing of the colonic brown,
Its heart beats near your scrotum,
Sending shivers to the tip of…
…the manliness of natures,
You prod it,
It answers back,
By wrenching your testicles from their perch,

The doctor explains fascinated,
Tapping an ink housing,
Against his lip,
His desk,
And the monthly journals,
“That it has no known origin…
…That it has spliced with your scrotum…
…and that it defecates through your anus…”

You ask about the blockage,
That you haven’t passed brown notions,
In many days,
The fear and panic of your belly within cramp,
He just fills out a prescription…
…of bait hooks and calamari.

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