Young Writers Society

Penetrate.
My plasticine nose tip
deep through this once-white carpet;
drilling into that woven-fiber wall, which
oh-so-pretentiously shields my lungs
from the CO2 when Earth exhales.
Absorbing (absolving?) nasally
the compressed material between
the bubblegum billows, a planet’s
Lung, and I.

Let the musty stains ferment
in my cracked and peeling throat;
molded shampoo left unsucked from
a cleaning long past.
No matter, my nostrils will do
sucking enough.

I’m immersed in the floorboards up to my hips.
The tunnel-edges are growing cooler,
it’s funny, that you all think of Deep as warm;
stifling with it’s bustling atoms.
But the truth of the matter is much
slower, almost the point of encumbrance
have these mass-specks paused…
The whirling of our great sphere
loses it’s grip in this middle place.
I’ve passed the Devil on my way. His power is one
of steel and stance, and I don’t much care for it.
With the saliva held under my tongue solidifying,
I’m at the pointed-pocket I seek. No greetings pass
between myself and Fortinbrass; after all, my mission
Is hardly the cordial kind.

The beast Brass settles himself into his fate,
it’s just roomy enough to encompass us both.
My knuckles scrape off the wicker bones caught between
his teeth, and my wrist bends with the contour of his
furry esophagus. So it’s lazily that I finger apart his innards,
dissecting all that the greats held dear.
A fingernail flick, and the Coliseum goes down.
Wrist twist: Paradise Lost is suddenly a much more fitting title.

An echoed call, Luci...time for dinner….
reverberates down to my succulent cell.
The forgotten lining of a bedroom door’s end
had betrayed me and spilled the light of an inside-out world.

In reverse I’m drawn upwards and out, my stammer of dissent
(“Carpe Diem, Carpet Demon!”),
made of roman bricks and candlesticks, rains down to
rebuild the world.

Now sitting on a hardwood chair,
Goodness! What’ve you gotten under those nails?
a glance down and a smile admit to my glee:
a lone pebble is lodged in my glorious cuticle grime.

I rush to the bathroom and flush.
(“At-last-missed, At-lan-tis”)