Slow Burning and Silent Drops of Asylum

By: Blake Pipes

 

Crack open the sky.

Spill the stars into a milky mixture;

swallow back.

 

We are scooped into a mesmer,

sunken, slid, and swept to a sheen

by these atomic poppers that hollow our insides,

teasing forgiveness in oblivion.

The good days are those

our heads hurt too much to remember.

 

My skin falls to the side

as I climb higher and higher;

the anchors detach.

I am a specter vibration.

Here, I am a television poster child

twinkling in cheery vacuum.

 

but I am fading,

flickering.

We have lost ourselves

into the nothing and away.

Daddy is dying, but the widow spiders are eternal.

I stretch smaller and smaller in the obsidian infinity

of this forsaken oasis that swallows me whole.

Jester slipper claws hook my wrists

back up to their cathode gridlines.

I sizzle with recollection,

writhe within my own desires.