cruising through gold channels
and silver streams,
wrapped in webs of lesser caverns
that snapped as it passed,
my body laced with psychedelic nails
meant for my coffin that was
a liquid pill, suspended from clouds
that carry grueling memories, the gone
shells of the man that I was.
Peacock skirts for the ghoul,
my dancing effigy, bronze eyes
and blue hair for blonde faces,
all sliding down a waterfall
of metal tongues.
Moss-cloaked rocks in the stream bed
where I dropped my house keys,
linen dolls in lines strung on dead
electric cords, slime on wires
leading back to scheduled days
that were mine and now
move no bones.
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