Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, January 4, 2020

4. Barbed Tongues

The devil of an itch ran across the surface of my right foot for over an hour— no amount of scratching or applying lotion would remove the barbed tongues along the top half of my metatasal bones, the skin shifting into a sore, reddening rash of continuous dry skin. I kept scrubbing at the flesh repeatedly, peeling back several layers of cells, until a wound managed to make its presence known, larger than a two dollar coins lying side-by-side. A week later it remains, an awkward gash refusing to fully scab over. Irritating eye persistent pain.

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An imperfect, malleable moon lingers over the horizon tonight. A lump of damp clay. Neither round nor square. Polymorphic insistence for following its own path. Falling moan.

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