coolian endocats

maybe
  there's
    a way
      to see
        the undeniably
          smooth-layered
            undulating
              princess.
                O it's better to be keen than seen
                   thought a fond,
                     understated cake-faced
                       wiggling mouth
                          of a charred flabby
                               mister
                                      once
                                             was
                                                     a
                                                         child
                                                                  ,
                                                                         but now
                                                                only a chilled
                                                        antiquarian
                                                collection
                                           of trading
                                         cards,
                          sweaty brow
                       sweaty brow
                 cascading
            careening
        crashing
  against
the
tides....... 
thinking
                                        "What sense
                               is it to live when the body
                        will only become food for the moss
                 and we'll never meet our friends again, and we'll
            ever be at a loss                       for words because
         our bodies will                                be a mush or a soot"


                                             But
                                       when you are
                                 surfing on green sweet
                             tundra it's harder to accept
                           the crystal death and the doomed
                        winds, and the heavy sails we all tote
                     and fill with the wind of time blowing us all
                 toward a tumulus of thought and guts, and easier
             to picture the toxic red sequential waxy outcome of all
   pointlessness as an infinite mote of voluminous jelly surrounding
the body the body absorbing and spiraling towards a sinkhole that
         is  dirty brown and caked with the resentment of the rice
   harvesters and the hatred of the coin-counters and the goodness
         of the rice harvesters, and it's all mounded together,
                         teetering
                               precariously
                                   on a
                                 metaphor
                                   thin
                                    woody
                                      pole
                                       or
                                    stack
                                      of
                                    blame
                                    sheets.
                                                      My
                                          Abdomen
                                  is telling
                              me
                   "An ever-wave
                              is making me
                                          sad, strawberry dream."
                                     
Puke.