iqmagi

Dear Sir or Madam,

Touch the concave recess of my muted self, as elders burn six spotted owls just hear me scream and awaken running like a comet with sparks falling off these metal heels and star shaped spokes. That was how I felt this morning. If I was half full, I am surely pourous as the cracked mud of an endless desert. Bring me a flood. The seeds of my eyes scatter like hens feet akwardly gaining a farmers lust to to put to rest the neurotic spool of a fly high on sugar cane and candied breast milk. I must find the Martyr who graciously dropped the grainsack of my invention allowing every conceivable crow within the folds.
I must kiss the soil in my fist, lifting from a broken knee and arch my prayer letting the sift fall as I nestle the sweet marrow from the sun. And suture the vagrancy of each sordid whisper unto the illuminated key buried deep within the pupae of my flesh.

~S~