The plot is to flock dynamite
stock and blow up God—
big bang
ensues with God bits
blown wide, textured skies
and burned flesh spots
dots this black abyss.
Physics kicks in
in this dimension, and flicks of
consciousness infect, evolve
to alight red and burn blood
casts that plasters this ego.
Flicks of consciousness blink between
love interests,
nerve bits burn, piercing,
a rapturous arrival to
a hell snowed in, frozen over
in new entrenched ecstasy
lacking a thrill, a sentiment,
that a vehement humanity
caresses your hand.
But what
do you feel?
The colour red? Ingrained electricity?
Or the inescapable physicality of pigment?
You are a set design. A four-square
psycho with axis in every direction.
No allure to invasion, just fervid
door opening, wind walking when suddenly
a flood of
thoughts, of blood
gushing
fast, rushing
past paper staining
skin beneath.
I am
blushing.
