1. “Nine Veils Burning”
We wear the same face nine times
and none of it is ours.
Iowa corn whispers in the dark,
stalks sharp as teeth,
and the maggots rise
not to rot
but to remember they were born inside the wound.
Corey spits the sky open —
one scream, nine throats.
The mask cracks like cheap porcelain
under stage lights that burn like confession.
We are the boiler suits soaked in gasoline,
the numbers tattooed on skin that forgot its name.
Maggot. Maggot. Maggot.
Say it until it sounds like prayer.
Say it until the Bible Belt tightens
and snaps.
We do not ask for light.
We chew through the dark
until the dark learns our names
and screams them back
in 4/4 time,
nine hearts detonating
as one.
2. “Maggot Psalm / Iowa Fragment”Section 1 (The Masks Speak)
We are the nine dead ends
that refused to stay dead.
Each latex grin a different lie
the world told us was safety.
Clown laughs first —
the rest follow like thunder
learning how to walk.
Section 2 (The Maggots Answer)
You called us maggots
so we learned to fly.
We crawled out of your small-town silence,
out of the corn that drinks diesel and regret,
out of the churches that preached quiet
while our fathers drank the roof off the house.
Now we wear your disgust like crowns.
Prose interruption / chorus:
And when the pit opens — when the bodies slam and the sweat tastes like rust — there is no audience, only congregation. Nine masks. One pulse. The sound is not music. The sound is the moment the mask finally melts and you see your own face underneath, screaming in perfect pitch with the rest of us. Iowa taught us this: everything beautiful starts in the dirt and ends in the fire. We just brought the fire early.
