(pre)Mortial Scrape

Orwell, on the way to morgue
On sandswiped steppes of
Broken concrete rocks
One foot does not ought
To weight enough
Oh wait, a thought
Is concrete rock?
When made in a mixture
Homogenous not ever
Not even while stirring
Cranial housed before it's laid
Crushing down a skeleton
Unlike 9/11
Though it murdered a boy
Scrawled on a bathroom stall
Withall, a response
Lurching toward purgatory
Hunched over Heaven and Hell
Observing its inhabitants
To choose a new home
Alleviated pain
It suspends downward
Like the cold
A bare footed cold
Puddle dried gross
No touching the floor
Its armoured his hands
Groped itself, now stuck
Adhered skin-on-skin
Now wood-on-wood
Closing the coffin door
Could he afford?
Some mahogany for his agony?
Or oak after he's croaked
Maybe pine while he's dyin'
Scabbed his throat with Birchwood
Splintered plank upon his back
Parted to the bone
The red sea still
While mosquitos puncture
Skin flaps of an innocent corpse
Oozed a banana jaune
To feed a fester swarm
Eyes awakened
Choked grip strangle-hold
Inhale all my blood
Through his nose
It's not the planks, it isn't
How so?
The poor fool's placebo! Sick fuck wanted to suffer!
While we pissed 6-feet deep
Covered your hole
And not once came over
To hear a passive writhe
Three months late
The rain kept him kicking
O to be trapped
Unable to pass over
Forgotten, 'cept for God
A chuckle for our quirky lad
Hilarity! He's done it again
Bound for nothing
All without a shred
A spec
An atom
Of recourse.