By: Blake Pipes
Crack open the sky.
Spill the stars into a milky mixture;
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,
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.