I just can’t seem to curb this depression,
said my friend Jack. And I know
it’s the root cause of the Absorber.
You know, that little inflamed pile
of immovable yellow crust with three
dark pubescent hairs rising from the center
that sometimes wiggles in the sunlight.
Yes, wiggles. Because of the salamanders.
They have tiny little chicken feet that trickle
down the villi and run through the ileum,
allowing the intestines to devour itself
by releasing malevolent macrophages into
the gastrointestinal tract. These cells have
superior being to other red and white cells.
They can synthesize prosthetic proteins
that churn microscopic pricks from
coagulated lumen juice. These proteins
declare war against cognitive awareness.
They also eat away your flesh.
You know, the epithelial greasepile that
bestows you such pleasurable stimulus
from the nightly rituals of brutality
and masochism you perform, always in solitude,
involving three hundred pounds of gravel,
a barrel of goose eggs, and one flamingo
corpse composed of wet playdoh.
Press your palms to mine and inhale.
Exhale. Inhale. Now take off your left sock.
Stuff it in the sink. Dear God, look outside!
The sky is on the wrong end of the universe.