Demons, beggars they are
Whole cake and nothing but the cake
They feast on decay, happy maggots
Scrub as I may, they stay stuck in the brillo
I gnaw at stenched bristles
Hanker for flesh of fruit rotten at harvest
Happy demons in picking smocks
A fertile bed of shit they’ve made of my mind
Regenerist army of worms reside
Feeding factory inside me now
Wet alien babies in placental pods
I smash them in rounds each night, in my dreams
And they greet me again around corners, like roaches
Flipped lights bring no relief in light of their presence
They are the rubber-necked chickens I choke in my nightmares
They are the unreal undead
How then, grasp the undead for a kill?
How shall I put the unreal to rest?