The Fuhrer

Illegitimate child
Born with a crooked mustache
Covering your pointy teeth
So eager to taste the flesh
And strip the sinew
Off mustard bones.

Ashes cower under
Your extended arm
Long fingers glinting with
Curved beauty
Slashing thin rivers
Of crimson
Into cracks
Carefully carved
In grated gravel.

Strips of breast bones
Housing beating hearts
Are curled in the hollow
Of your mouth
Skittering around
The grind of your teeth while
You tried to burn
Dancing skeletons
Slicked on the side
Of a bronze can.

The spout curving
A wayward spine
As I
The fair haired maiden
Bent under the glare
Of Aryan blood
Their tongues.


About delightfulness

One sweet, quirky, delightful individual I am.
Gallery | This entry was posted in January, Poems and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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