A happy sexualised weekend.

My writing is terrible.
I must grow scathing with my tired eyes.
Curt cut throat spilling it all.
Tasting and tasking blood.
Rectified attempts and blushing rotten things.

Quiet bliss
Sleep engulfed them.
Peace erupted and overflowed.
Silence was upended by hallucination.
New lands and lives in harmony were dreamt,
songs rattled and startled emotions they hadn’t had.
They could see now. In their tiny skulls,
resting behind their closed eyes,
a regrowth, somewhere new.
Feathers, flowers,
and finally.
Fruit.

How can I help myself?
Appeal to the greater nature of things.
Must we try and find someone to work this new job?
Do you want my direction or what?