Pink swamp beyond, claw me down to unstitch itches, full of opal emeralds and intact eyelids.
Cold machine I cradle, please release the needle, poor tapered worm we are. In and unearthed.

Slander the ragged remainder—good folk are fine, but a closed corpse can’t be crawled into.
From below holler our apologizers, as I could reach out and take their tongue or last loose tooth.

In my hollow earth a yeti nurses her progeny, but your dark side of moon doesn’t take on warm.
Gods mimesis, god’s mimesis. Drooling in the Jacuzzi: not our first flat-line at this fairground.

There is the lake. There, the woods. Here someone perished unnoticed, became lake, the woods.
Some people burn each bridge so that to reach them, you must reach all about and beyond them.

Take this brief walk across the dripping line made of phlegm which sways like auroras in wind:
what you pitched into abyss was tossed back to you. Problem is, this particular pit is bottomless.

Sweet hazel hellscape, lapis lazuli lagoon fed by translucent lava rivulets. Every nerve already
fringed, seared inward from exterior. How we take things in, without hesitation embrace them.