the beast

there is

crust

over my eyes not like bread more like

scab

or some sort of skin over milk like

film

over a flashing light not like candle more like

watching a horror movie through the neighbors’ window like

INT. SOUL - MORNING:

we open on the beast dragging itself

across the forest floor pale and pudding

slipping over itself like

milk or actually more like

skin and bones or some sort of 

illusion

stretched over birchbark bones

inflated with flesh and kool aid

this technicolor automaton slips through sunbeams

day in day out like kneaded dough

yes dough is the word thats the one

not pudding because that

recipe requires a certain sweetness

and though i know matter and

energy are one and the same

i can't help feeling entropy

slip like oil or water or

salt tides through the very

cracks in my 

skin my sugarcrust skin

grows softer with every

spiral