Staring out over Cyprian seas, partitioned into teals and
blues
That look obsidian in the night as the moon hangs like a
half onion
In the sky, bright enough to make you cry.
This strange aphasia, this mahogany agony
Driving me crazy. This paradoxical archaeological search for
myself,
Like bones of a pterodactyl covered in paprika-colored
clumps of earth.
My medical mission is meditation (or alliteration), this
precipitation of
My words, dripping thick like gravy, a bright unnatural
yellow like margarine,
Or the screaming blue of Paul Bunyan’s ox. Depopulation of
my mind, now
Transparent like the skin of onions from sipping cloudy margaritas,
Smoothing and rounding my brain like Patrick Swayze molds
clay.
Sarah- I sense this was an experiment, some playing w/ sound, yet there's plenty here- archaeology metaphors, some foreign allusions just out of reach, and of course Patrick Swayze (wha?). Still, I'm wondering if this one deserves a bit more excavation itself. I sense some energy here.
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