The Napalmist

The Napalmist

The Napalmist has no eyes. That's how he sees you.

Ridin so fuckin high up air

you won't even hear him booming

when his levers slit the silver belly of the bomb whale

and a shoal of flashing silver mouths go raiding down.

Fall down.

Fall down.

Fall down.

And he has mouths to burn with. So many snapping mechanical mouths to burn with,

to burn with, to burn with, to burn with.

His tongues have mouths to burn with.

His hair has mouths to burn with.

His chin has mouths to burn with.

His breasts are split by mouths.

His belly has a thousand rows of mouths.

His navel is one raw enormous mouth.

His spine is mouth upon mouth.

His cock and his balls are flaunting their mouths.

The Napalmist.

Hell is Vegas.

Hell is his Carnival.

Hell is his Baby.

Hell is his Rosy Bouquet.

Hell is his Christmas Childhood.

And he'll suck the fucking hell out of you with all of his shimmering mouths.

With his neck mouths.

With his wrist mouths.

His knuckle mouths.

His calf mouths.

His ear mouths.

His elbow mouths and his finger mouths and his palm mouths.

But the mouths on the soles of his feet,

the mouths at the tips of his toes are the worst.

They'll give you a special kind of doom.

They'll snatch and clamp and crush and chew and

chomp and change the skin of all the children of your neighbourhood,

chase them screaming naked from evaporated hearths

and up the melting road

with flames

stuck to them

like burning superglue

Fall down.

Fall down.

Fall down.

(The Napalmist.

The eyeless and allmouthy Napalmist.

A Nadrolian invent, patented too.

Coming soon, perhaps,

or maybe late

to a colony near you.)