I am less than I am.

My eyes are crystal scrapings,
speaking through me with -
Germanic tongues;
of angels and men who will
grant me wings,
and soft skeleton.

My mind is a stale catacomb,
with misty shores that thunder
under a howling ocean,
full of thoughts in a multitude.
Hitler is the postie -
for the town therein.

My hands are hordes of ants,
who mass together in a -
shifting orientation.
Warping, and throwing out,
clouds of flesh and sinew.
Colonising.

My torso is cum soaked,
like a Soho night club - squirming.
Revelling guests that gesticulate,
pulling at each other for,
golden showers -
teasing and biting,
dancing with Babylon.

My hair is a ream of angel breath,
softer than a kitten's pelt.
Hunted will I be too, for the next -
collection,
with emaciated goddesses,
and glittering universes decided.

My eyes are crystal scrapings,
less than brilliant.
My iris is a handful of crushed gems - Topaz - Obsidian - Aquamarine....