Sludge,

grim sludge,

how it will trudge toward the floor.

Down,

down the wall,

no forays for doors,

malleable, though dormant.

A warped egg yolk,

bobbing withing itself.

Skewer its color.

It wants to be bread.

Commisioning

external lobotomy.

Hell, give me all

and let my name evaporate

from the blue of my blood.

Let it be only red, let it make me dumb.

And my heart will pump forever,

obseqious,

no thickeing,

no rising,

no singing,

no batter dripping

from my mother's spoon.

The sludge,

it eats dandelions

and smothers the seeds.

It swallows Kandinskys

and yet it cannot morph.

It cannot contort its core

into a wave

or a half smile.

Though it is all want,

it is all desire.

It is the brim

between dead weight and animation,

expedition and anesthetic.

And so it is filled.

And so it is stunted.

Sat on,

a rotting tree stump,

and sweated on.