Soggy

The day is soggy
Like his cereal.

Red ants flood death pools

And reincarnate scuttling spine crawls
Across an over-inflated lake surface
Like his bleeding windshield
That perhaps said too much.

Words fluctuate,

Font fast and fizzling,
Freaking the founder I’m sure,
Because they couldn’t find his tongue.

Bold black characters budge back turns,

Faceless and fading like all sweet milk bowls do.

The sand is mud,

And so am I.

Crystal edges gone

Mushy gushy death trap
For the heavy foot
I find to be my own,
Only swallowing myself
In some quick sand self-inversion.

Blue body refills itself

With atmospheric downpours
Like he refills his breakfast bowl
For all mouths in their morning hunger,
And I’m getting softer.

Indefinite is my organs.

Mud-pie stomach-wad can’t hold.

I resort to fasting.

My pockets—

Denim cradles for spoons
Rusting themselves tetanus orange,
Getting awfully heavy,
And I’m starting to sag.

I sink lower.

I guess

I’ll just be mud
For a while.