A magnificent wind ripping through my brain cells, if any were any at all, even the angels did fall but it's not fall at all. Fresh flowers in bloom, to bandage the gloom that pulses through even the slightest unimportant single-celled organism sending orgasmic thoughts foreboding, corroding my gray matter, a splatter against my soul, I search for a mole, is it even me in the end? A foe? A friend?
Vanity or sanity oxidizing..mesmerizing from a daydream or is it an illusion? An ocular delusion? My ideas purge with magnetic repulsion, a solvent or emulsion, or has my very sanity taken a pathological flavor? A lick of honey, the tongue doth savor.
I beg for the sifter, go get the drifter, in the rye or is he just a sty in my eye... for it's time to sift the phantoms from physical reality, Dying from depravity.
A diversion, conversion squishing me into the box, the flock, herding us into huts of the same color, no bread, no butter, pumping me full of berm not sperm making but breaking forever....
...what was of me.
by dena mckinnon
Very good.
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