the destroyer > text > Soham Patel


Mother’s quisling against
says don’t wrestle without
a shirt on with the boys on
the block. Angels disrobe
so recurring oneiric sound-
tracks sound saint-like in any
form. A sense of apocalypse
as mental fight put some
land horses back on path.
Every other mania wired
through to the amplifiers.


Belladonna and morphine made me
crawl on the lawn after I spilled
boiling water at the wishing well.
If the world is a denuded waste-
land, mother could have kept me
worn over. I burlesque, come
in the cabaret, masquerade
this metal rendition of a sad-eyed
lady with a cowboy mouth.