Poem: Winter Squash

Bruno Guerrero via Unsplash

I am drawing some kinds of constellations from the back of my outside brain. 

I wish there were more lines to cross between more even steps for a harmonious ride to hell and back with an army, back with a story, back to back with archangels to guard your synthesis and crusade. 

The crossroad is wide and holds many shards of chaos harmony and abyss. 

And in the abyss there is time and there is stinking mush, and in between there is a type of bliss. I try to remind myself that I am against the time and back with the mush; grind my hair and nails into the ground drink blood swallow teeth and break down as fast as I can so I can watch my brain break and my heart decompose. 

Accelerate it so it happens, life and decay all at once a walking zombie showing tell which parts of me are rotten. The rib of a squash looks like a husk or a shell but it is the meat. The more water involved the more the meat. If you’ve ever stepped in something dead you’ll know the mush and its bulky ooze through aeons of mass.

It enters outside and it lives inside the flux of mind and matter.

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