With a pulled back grimace
stapled and sleek,
eyes wide…
counting sheep,
counting seconds, lasting minutes,
staring at the ceiling.
That old, cold, uncomfortable feeling
of ice frosting venous shoots
up the legs, into the belly and spills
spreading out to fill a black void
as its vapors rise out of the pores
and sting those pried open eyes
like tendrils of barbed smoke.
Trickles of blood straight from the pump
roll over numb feet from acuminate files
layered under the nails and drip off the rope.
Butcher shop paper left piled on the floor
like the thinnest slices of barely cooked meat
waiting to be folded like a toothless maw over me.
Like cooked fish wrapped in yesterday’s news.
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
