Mutilated By Rebels

Lips part the hole in his face,
And slithers forth the reek,
Out in opinions lynched,
By hooks from his breath,
Pores part between the make-up,
Another brand of stench exposed,

In a bouquet of dictatorship,
Enticing you to perceive,
A new train of thought,
He opens his bathroom,
Factors and the same thing,
That slithers out of one end,

Slithers out of the other,
In a haze of pollen brown,
The smell of these collected,
In the jar of the room,
Make you want to bring up,
Something yellow,
Apply it to paper,

And mail it to some authority
That can deal with this mess,
The mess of a man poured,
Into the mess of the room,
You feel infected by the touch,
But it's only a letter at that.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole

Published In American Magazine 'Rise Up' Issue 5 - December 2006