i'll never be a poet

clean your room

soil beneath soles
bunnies between my toes

this is not my home.

but i have to clench teeth fist and toes, mineral sediment of fibre and hair scrunching gathered up in harvest, and reap what i've sown.

my eyes trace the swollen lips ripe with an artificial lemon and its sweet sour juice flowing through the stick drip drip drip distillate out the end of the stick - the hands try to catch the fall but fizzing golden dewdrops glide over finger ridges and slim themselves through dry cracks splitting on the floor like an egg had a nosebleed.

where the spots pelt-
they vanish into the fuzz and burrow glittering root rivulets a subsurface network transmitting extraterrestrial information beyond hyperspeed. germination. grow out and up and release your sour spores into my enclosed atmosphere. the air thick with lemonade haze, citrus sting on my tongue but the sugar worms into my dormant brain and strikes gold. dopamine. no sun for photosynthesis. shift out of this form, chromatic abberation in halftone, phase and phase and phase. derealise. astral. don't be. it hurts to slow your vibration to rattle safely within this form. amorpheus, you don't belong.

soil beneath soles
bunnies between toes

this is not my home
so why have i settled like sludge
and laid down beneath the ground?

who gathers round to bury my shell
dry eyes all around, flicking away from the
coffin varnish shining slick in the hot afternoon sun.

decomposition. i feed the earth
it laps up the malformed black alphabet in my slushy blood
crunching on iron magnets- tick tick tick
and all around the garden, the grass grows red
wild reeds and weeds twist up to a copper sunball
and sway in irregular 5/4 to a tune
no living soul can hear.

this is nothing to be proud of.
this is nothing to indulge in.
chop off the hand, gouge out the eye
get back to what you're supposed to be