Fishy guts

I squash and squabble.

Little hens beckon me at dawn.

I go outside.

The starry night is crispy and clear.

I communicate with the stars.

It’s a communication grid.

I rub ashes in my eyes.

They bleed.

Chlorine fleshes out the wound.

Puss oozes from inside of the flesh.

Corpses.

Vomit.

A purge.

Wax the underbelly.

Stand up for shop keeper’s glory.

For a light is not you without a beacon.

Let thy be thy name.