Monday, November 5, 2018

the perfect me

know that
                 there's a mannequin in my chair

those waxy kind of thoughts
those waxy kind of cheeks

involuntarily replacing me

the shrouded cathedral
                                     draped over melting plastic
resembles my rib cage

the cracked marble
the discolored ivory

the pearl pretending eyes
                                         i no longer have to

he's cultivated all the refuse
                                             hidden it away

inside of me
i can be opened by magic

a can opener
is magic

something soft stabbed into my
                while I watch for vanished lines

without knees I will walk into
forever places
                       hung with hallowed lights

they will preach florescent

the meals will be of sawdust stars
the wall dreary old cement

I will paint them with the graffiti equivalent
to the years of my life
                                    I will be of plastic casings

a body to sell

until we are washed out
until we are formed into shiny islands
in a retching, gelatinous, blue sea

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