Toenail Soul

Wanting to wallow
In the wrongfulness of me,
I found a form of failing
Became my artistry.

My anuran tongue swallowed
In their final masterpiece;
The eight great lies in my life
Found at last assemblances
And momentary pangenesis
Like lizards in a creek,
Initially protozoic,
Then a simple slow unfurling
Inwardly, of tails and brains,
Until such time as galaxies
And all their hypothesised junkets
Unplugged and drained,
Seen through a
Telescopic lens
From beyond the maddening planets.

I've been painting the toenails
Of my soul again.
The dead have this tendency
To disregard boundaries,
To interrupt, to mishear,
And so I misappropriate myself
With many colours brushed,
To stay their ways
From being near.

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