The Statue Inside Me

 

All the spinnings of clay into nebulas that can only happen between snapping synaptic gapings

The thought that hasn't been thought yet always shines like my memory of your bite

But requires magenta to be spilled, Spaniards don't even drink wine to know this

Filling glasses with maroon dyed glycerin to spray into light over clubs for ironic gentlemen

I choose to stay home with my cigarettes

To peel my brain off of a world filled with dragons and fairies to spin out into a nebula

I will become a smoking pot, overflowing and growing over

With what is between what could be and what is

 

Published at The Wagon Magazine