Lye
I think if I took out my brain and soaked it in lye there would be a feral explosion
Or a little sigh
Of the two, I'd prefer the explosion, I guess
Forked lightning, sparking glass, buildings bowing and stars screaming
Words that carry across the supernovas to the neighboring galaxy
Poetry and prose so poignant that mothers sob and fathers cry amen
Atom bomb curiosity and crystal blue intelligence that hawking soars over
Irrational exceptionality, blood red boldness
Lavender breaking cloud-shores of wisdom
Tears and smiles of sparkling hallelujahs
But Of course not
When the great white sterile gloves remove my brain (my heart, rather- or aren't they the same) from that revealing lye
There will be no explosion
Probably a feeble hissing fart,
If that.
No, when the Sterile Gloves gently caress my mass of stupidity and clumsy and Kanye out of the burning alkaline lye
There is nothing
But a sigh
A last breath before death, a last lie before breathless Time
When forked lightning flees before the last Lighting
Stars screaming in awe of the last Singing
Poetry of nature, prose of people, lyrics of life-
Feral explosion?
No, thanks
Real Life comes from those who are satisfied with sighs
Because how can we breathe if we're always exploding?
