We snatch

baby from crib,

egg from coop.

Sorry,

we all gotta eat;

we all gotta poop.

We hatch,

crack shells, raise hell.

Rob mothers of all shapes, all flesh.

Traipse ’em around the yard, teach ’em to hate.

Nourish the D-gene-irate

afresh.

“They live in the hills,” the others used to say,

“Worship death.”

We came from the sea,

erstwhile

originally.

Shorn from contemptuous land,

canoes and catamarans

crossed, tossed and turned and

churned by tempest,

to virgin continent.

The soil welcomed us,

like an unscrupulous nymphoid. 

Worship void.

Then, 

cleaving the living rock,

gods of Borders rent a window on the shore.

“They speak in the language,” say some and more.

Exochromatic lords

of light and sonic,

yonic empresses impress upon us

the toll of passage: All-flesh Mother.

Rot in Her.

The land has a mouth, a womb.

Feed it.

Vibrate to Her hum.

Canopic jars’ stain in tomb.

You need it.

Climb into carnal grottos and toss slimy chum

into xenophilic eels’ jaws.

Wreathed in grins,

we plant seeds in Mother’s tum.

The drowned pit,

they call it.

Oh ho ho ho, watch bro grow.

Dee-jean-eye-rate!

We camp in the bluffs,

stuff our gullets with globules,

pop pustules into paws and maws.

Slaughter the lamb and savor the bleat.

The gifts are too tasty.

Sorry,

we gotta eat.