Cris (_prism) wrote,

"Egg Timer",

feeling the icy floor
below my blistered feet
solid as a sound-
(in bluejeans)
on the tail bone
of a scaled beast
with brass wings--
thinking about things
that all hide
under a stone sky
in the afternoon
of this daybreak
(with a bowl that runneth over)
above all the traits
the manifest in the dark--
as a folded page,
smelling of sandlewood
in a scuffed,
because home is in the hara;
where the desert is merely
(a mouth for the beast
covered in continental moss
with bark-clad feet--
and stumps for teeth.)

it's an interesting tale we weave
when we've lost our first words
and tried to retain
an ancient lost love
who measures out my days
in the background
in the direction I can't face
(when my back's to the sun,
eating honeysuckles
and sweet grass)
in anatomical positin
due to the regret
in forgotten actions.
your impaction.

because apparently
my chakras do
run a-muck
over a painting
in a showbox...


  • (no subject)

    Possibly permanent hiatus.

  • (no subject)

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    woooo school was interesting today, some guy came to teach us an obsolete technique from the 70s that involves violently shaking people and is…

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