2019 Day 21 – Inside Out

The angel turned me inside out.
The pavement was Rorschached with spilt milk but I didn’t cry
Unlike the crocodile
Who was wearing people skin boots
Two sizes too tight.
The angel turned me inside out
And I spilled my guts
Like a film noir stool pigeon.
I wasn’t expecting the splash
Of green spleen.
My shadow split three ways –
Was I expected to follow?
The angel turned me inside out
And all the butterflies escaped
Disguised as ballet dancers.
Their pirouettes blocked out the sun.
The angel turned me inside out
And the scanner sang “Bullet, bullet, bullet”.
My face was a mask of magnets.
The angel turned me outside in.
I gathered my errant shadows back together
And interpreted the pavement’s story
To the indifferent pigeons
And the butterflies.

 

Notes: “Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like The Color of Pomegranates and “City That Does Not Sleep,” incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.” This one is brought to you by courtesy of an MRI scan and a slightly weird imagination.

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