I pick molding moss off of my scalp,
glistening when its dark and not light,
rising to create a supernal hologram
of the spaces between sulci and gyri,
the space that is of insanity that agitates
the fragments of artist that once was,
now shattered in me, its ashes spread.
I suck on my thumb for palliative notions
to satiate the thirst for earnest ecstasy
and swirl my left index finger through
a gaping hole in my stomach, tinging
it red, singing like a wren of grave
tendencies for my perplexing mind, to
agitate the beast to growl, to tear me apart.
My hair get singed by the graphics of sun,
scorching every emotion into amber
which deems it necessary for me to drench
entirely this body, and wipe away slippery
skin, to bring out what has been hidden
beneath, tattooed red on peeling bones,
keeping me buoyant in lakes of introspection.