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Decomposure
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Artwork (Wednesday)
Hands in a funnel,
A mute caved-in skull.
Artwork.
Sight hotglued to frames,
Thoughtloop on splaying grey shoots through prisms,
Top corner locked ommmm icons
For bacon and dry hair.
Tumor siphoned into the mouths of amputees
With arms and legs on plastic,
curled in tubes at their purple lips
and eclipse the moon of cheese or an action flick
with slow motion roundhouse kicks
to pick your poison of harmless.
your arteries grass, bristling last on the wasteland arms.
Through the periscope, you see nothing less:
a body to consensual grapefruit, processed.
a wrung cloth over a fence,
well, i asked the blackness in my steps
in a revealing dress,
so i guess i had it coming.
No swimming, i walked out here just to go back,
to empty days in graduated cylinders and live off the fat.
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the night narrows from their headlights for whitenoise, then it pass.
your socks will never get wet.
fluid frozen or burnt to disc,
locking a low-contrast reflection underneath so your chin stays low.
Suspended,
stabbing deadlines;
a proud pile of pencil shavings in the teeth of a desk,
a folded towel on a lazy susan thrown in a fountain,
summer's coming again.
an evaporated ice age's secrets scattered across the brown
and no chest behind my drawn blinds for reduced glare, incognito.
Life evolves in the craters of dead moons, scientists say,
if we could only look longer we will make contact
and peace with these new lifeforms,
with increased funding and a few more exploratory drones.
these crafts run on the skinning of caged dreams,
treading muffled screams into the suit of a spiral
on a propeller that cuts throats into premature mouths
to boil that grey bird down to a bitten pearl
no oil drill could strikethrough,
a night none can swim through.
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