Plasticine Shells

by Daulton Dickey.

Everything is broken and old and plasticine fetuses
Rot inside writhing wombs—where nothing grows
From the darkness of an eggshell morning whose sisters
Break the dawn and shatter the night and rain ruin on the
Brows of forgotten children—
Whose eyes coat the tears and streak the years and burn
Neurons in brain cells while the slates of amorphous genes
Reek of sinister decay—yet everyone burns and boils
And the sky turns and broils the eyeballs lurking in
And nothing holds anything, though no one can say the same
About the madmen exploring the niches buried in the streets—
Everyone runs and screams and no one is aware of the
Kaleidoscopes churning overhead—
Colors react to the fiery storm of twisted lies fluttering through
The air, all gloomy and bespoken and choking on the remnants of
Ash and debris floating through the membranes writhing between
The earth and the sky—
Men sit and wait for permission to die as women run and race
All around them—nothing grows from the meat in their heads
Although flowers sprout from their foreheads and reach for the skin
Of the sun—then they fail, and they wither and coagulate
And the songs of the lonely and the dying and the ill-informed
Pulse and hitch a ride on the waves of light exploding in the
Atmosphere—no one is solid or certain or confident in their
Broken and scaly woven plasticine shells

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