Autopsy of a Bush Man
There is nothing left to kill here,
no pregnant dream fields
for this fallen magus.
He harvested them years ago with his Lamina–
gathering a legion of young dreams,
sucking their innocence
and sowing them in the fertile, sin-filled dust of bones.
Now, I watch as an infinite sleep grips him–
forcing this taxed cadaver on my metal death bed.
I knew him then;
creator of curses,
damner of wills,
sad, black, wrinkled lad damaged by age.
So I’ll strip him
with starving dermestids
releasing them over his crocked, detached limbs,
diminished muscles strapped to layers of dead cutis,
and lagged, hateful platelets.
Then I’ll watch them
gnawing greedily at the diseased flesh
on my table–
freeing the poisoned cells of the coven
from that exposed Wiccan marrow.
The cadaver speaks;
each seasoned cut
freeing captured enzymes of the gifted bush children
and churned bits of energetic souls.