thee queer rib

she said
it’s too late for the mushroom cave
it’s over now
we missed the mushroom cave
the last trip done gone

a man dressed like a pink sheep
or was he a hairy pig
proferring scallions and ginger
said is this
your first date

i’m led by my short rib
thee queer rib
this side of the rig veda
let’s say it was aged
i said

i’ve walked millions of steps
my feet have yet to come off
said a disembodied voice
tentacles spread across the sky
whorling violet vortex there

the afflatus / afflicted
atrophied / attenuated /
someone’s mind was blown
beyond the oort cloud
and a lady sang

boys go to jupiter
to get more stupider
girls go to mars
become rock stars

eye couldn’t have dreamt it
better myself
said eye

What I’m Reading:

… why is the unconscious so loathe to speak to us? Why the images, metaphors, pictures? Why the dreams, for that matter.

— Cornac McCarthy / “The Kekulé Problem” / Nautilus