i gaze up to a womblike embrace
of cold space
yearning for a blue moon;
shes black as oil tonight
storm clouds sequestered her
out of sight
perhaps i'll open up my heart
a swift incision between
ribs five and six
straight ahead, you should see the Styx
it's modern art!
i feel, therefore i am
is that Descartes?
i can't think now
my brain's in the mortar, a sadist holds the pestle
and then, like a conceptually inside-out kettle
air begins to flood my chest
a macabre, yet harmonic whistle
i'm sucking up the atmosphere
but those storms clouds are still here
nevermind that, i'll hold my breath
and hope
that i'll spontaneously combust
and my ashes will lance out of orbit from the thrust
ill jet past Jupiter's eye
touch down on Saturn's crown
leered at by the six walls of his storm
like a deconstructed die
despite my prismatic prison
if i glance up high
i might catch a blue moon
hanging in the sky
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