The Brittle Tool

An howling blast shatters
the windowpanes of my
decrepit, infimous nest
when I hold in my hand,
tremulous, that siphon of hate
so violent and grave – reed
that cuts my dry lips in
caverns and chasms of lunar
proportions, fingernails that
must splinter at every second,
an alliteration for you:
castana chiara scolopendra
I express therefore I am
not a thing, a liquid with
no orgasm behind it to speak of.