doldrums, fly on paper

whispered the maggots' mother
it tastes of memories
and it will flavor enough substance
to film gossamer wings
and eyes like finely cut jewels

so feed, my pretty brood,
feed until you become
the precious and despised spawn
of this world, the only ones to
find sustenance and beauty
in what all else refuses:
the shit and the corpse and the offal.

we are the truest artists of
"found art", and what we
find in decay and stench
is what everyone denies is in themselves,
that secret waiting to come out
that rot inside urging to be.

we pray before we touch,
and our mantra hums and sacred flying arcs
make the sacred plain for all to see.