moss

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.

HA's Place