Museum Haikus
Tightness in my throat
What, now, is this strange feeling?
Everything is dead.On Sunday morning
Too long without a scalpel
My heart is heavy
With the lack of brains to scoop
Monday brings the peace.Softly, wind rustles.
Inhaling the winter air,
I dream of decomp.We are all machines:
Thrusting biomechanics.
Existential mess.Fishing brain matter
Out of the occipital,
Removing the soul.Soft, pink, organic.
Everything that compels us
Is flushed down the sink.
Reposted from http://lies.tumblr.com/post/43646914422.
