I attempt to pull the mammoth tusk from my mother’s new lover.
It’s a symbol polishing the blunt-force indifference cannibalism fuses.
In place of terminology, there’s sports equipment made from coated torso swarms.
My mother arrives, spreads her thighs and sees the primary verve of my mind’s air is blank.
She moves to molest all regions of the son gone missing.
Blobs then bikini wax and transfix neighbors of half-mildew half-soup.
I leave her drunk in bed to attend my own hanging.