from the floor of a sentient dungeon
I'm a heap of broken plates and tubes
a door that will not open in a murky sea
lips opening inside a sail of leaves
shelves of pleasure stacked on burning cells
tarantella of fragmented selves.
Quiet beds of fish eggs
in stasis beneath shining plastic
bathed in beams of light
a machine's walled monolithic night.
Tongues that swim in vats of paint
a rack for absent brushes
whole solar systems raided
for a peasant's ragged overhang
the corpse's late returning brain.
No comments:
Post a Comment