Blind

My eyes

have seen the light breathe beneath the pillowed clouds of moonless nights, and the cigarette burned infinite ennui eclipsing the expiring decalcified galaxies, through the cracked lenses spiraling subterranean spider webs across the cavernous surface of my unconscious mind.

My eyes

shine twin yellow crescents, to incomplete darkness.

My eyes

scan with caliced hands the great barren american landscape, lackadaisically searching tan plains for desiccating oases suspended over the vanishing horizon of smog, laying parallel in contorted fetal positions inside foggy plastic bubbles peeling to reveal rays of transcendental days.

My eyes

split into drifting double vision, focusing on nothing.

My eyes

were once sewn shut to the world, seething weekly while simmering with vegetable lobes in steaming stews of iodized saline solution and rubbing alcohol, until made aware of the arid air lingering longer within the patched atmospheric pressure persistently pushing against my chest.

My eyes

center my universe, unequally balancing equilibriums.

My eyes

enhance these seven senseless senses, as cartilage appendages of waxed bass drums beat compositions of distorted noise and nostrils serve allergenic stuffing in drips, draining down sinuses to replant tart taste buds in the fertile tongue when my phantom pains become unnervingly numb.

My eyes

peripherally perceive depressive depths, shooting blood spots to map out hollow earth and shallow oceans with stagnant white waves in each compassed direction, unturned on a warped axis in spastic orbits gravitating towards open flames posing as planets with toupee heavens.

My eyes

feed steadily on orange carotene, from god’s only sun.

My eyes

consist of bucketing black puddles called pupils, traced imperfect circles in sequential in circumference to the surrounding brown irises defecating truths of shit, projecting repressed memories as impressionist images and scattered surrealist dreams refracted through depreciating hues.

My eyes

hide inside shaded red skin lids, tanning between random periods of rapidly repetitive blinking spasms of tourette’s twitches with nervous ticks, rolling over encrusted moss molding in the secluded corners of rotting sockets amongst the reaping shadows of frivolous decomposition.

My eyes

bruise into blackened blue ripening fruits, blooming only once.

My eyes

sting from the showering ashes and acidic embers of burnt lashes, to be rubbed in with tensed fists covered in razor barbed follicles, then sweat salty streams of trickling tickling bodily fluids down the wrinkling eroded valleys formed from fractured crow’s feet onto bottomless dirt floors.

My eyes

tumble from the wormholes in my unpolished shakespearean skull, dangling strung out with loosened shoestring yo-yos knotted together, acting with equal and opposite reactive twirls around the spinning windowless room until busying dizziness halos around hallucinogenic visions.

My eyes

fly higher than the limitations of my detachable head, when pogo libidos with springing brain stem cells bounce rhythmically to foreign beats, standing over the silent picture of differentiating indifferences to living color from atop hills of infertile soil lazily grazed by lamb fed children.

My eyes

close slowly as the single witness to blissful ignorance, blinking smokeless signals from fire pits furious with intoxicating oxidized molecules, like an extinct species deemed obsolete by ancient beings claiming to be human when they see everything except exactly which exists before them.

My eyes

in twenty/twenty hindsight, have both gone blind.

Each Breath Is an Excuse to Sigh

Exacerbated

expressions of

agitation, irritation

and aggravation exhibit

several exaggerated exhalations

exiting me to the expelled exterior,

but don’t expect any expletives, since

actions are better than these explanations.

Thought

If I had

a thought,

I’d be

thinking

too much,

about

everything

and

nothing

all at once.

Stagnant Water

Disease breeds

in the source of existence,

huddling in evaporating puddles,

waiting for me

to pass by

and cry.

Chris Butler is a twenty(3)-something nobody shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut, in the suicidal town of Danielson.