Using a cosmic mail-order fillet knife
they ran off with my sigmoid colon
and my hard drive

One bitter week
where the sun blasted orange through the blinds
and I couldn’t see the rays even if I asked politely

They took away the moon craters
infesting my only organic dumpster
and used twenty one metal staples to hide the evidence

I tried to tell the story
but the words wouldn’t boot

Every letter I produced for years
the Whooshay snatched his belongings
and sizzled out through the electric doorway

It’s tempting to talk to myself
or converse with the alien poking his meaty head
out of the left side of my abdomen
instead I just cover him with a solid plastic bag
and wait for him to cough up the truth

I ask them
what are you trying to tell me?
and they never answer
except the with the occasional nod of the head
and shuffle of the loafers
out of the room


Filed under poetry

2 responses to “Stoma

  1. Thanks man! This one is very personal, and it’s all yours to use for Calliope or whatever you wish (assuming you want it). Glad you dig it.

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