Deep Down Necrosis

Dysmorph by Brendan McCarthy 

                    I scrape off your face,                      

your plastic smile,

like tooth decay.

Through the cavity hole

I press on the wormy tangle

of upchucked nightmares

and leftover words,

but those nerves are too spent

to carry electricity.

The impulse floats

like a dead fish in a murky pond.

The yellow, fermenting pus

of your resignation

stains my gloved fingers,

And it reeks of abandoned theaters

turned squatter houses.

You’re but a wrinkled mask

stretched over a swamp,

bubbling with rot.

Your screams gargle like clogged drains.

Your gums are mush,

no bone, no story.

All we can do for you is cover the gray ruin deep down

with a waxy ruin,

and hope for a good embalmer.