If Upon Me in My Garden

If upon me in my garden, I mouth up sun and die of some bitch

seasonally snuffing my golden light, then omen me an open grave

and a night knife. Cue up the dead, nasty grinders. Swish me in a jug

of haunt rubbish. For fuck sure make me dogbody ravage against dirt’s

invisible fence. And while I might, in my life, have put up fists at organic

grocers, I never once boxed a bitch in the bulk aisle. And while living, I

might have forgiven too many trespasses passed off as oblivion, and kept

nary a gun to hunt the killers of children, fuck prison. At least in death,

hum me up a blade of wayward chopper for genociders. Percenter me

an eye on the walking devil so I can chokethroat the ragweed; give

me a goddamned scythe.

And I swear to you, if someone made me want to be so severing,

then that motherfucker is a walking, bloody guillotine. A soggy

perversion of constrictor, abrupt at the swamp edge, bloated

and greedy on his own coiling mortal. O then, make me

a mutant haint, covered in swamp soot, sudden surge

of wet cough muscle collapsing in his empty chest.

But of the body, which will love its maggots back forever, lay this

black-eyed bitch on a body farm, and make of me a compost

mudding up plump and thick for a richer, blacker world.