metamorpher

everything has to have a voiceover and a voicemail and a vocal accompaniment, peeling away the layers of confusion, like a moist shallot, you are trying to be so atmospheric, the driving beats of a dying beast, rollicks of laughter gurgling outward and onward, ultraviolet rays, supercrimson, megataupe, i can see it, i can feel it, glassy-eyed, writing in the dark, after wayward suns, smoky pillars and silent pleas, please, emerge from your uncircumcised cocoon, like a car's erect headlight beam in a narrow tunnel, like a rise from perdition, despicable disrespect comes from every cardinality, carnally, rotting away lavishly, embolden yourselves against shadowy maws and shapely paws, leave your partners in the dust as you fly away, above hardened seeds, above fields of feathery ideals, flaws float upwards, higher, fading into voiceless heights, and return to homebase

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update: on my way back from the store just now with groceries (perhaps four hours after original post above) there was, in a coincidental twist, a dragonfly that appeared to be dying inches from my arm. It was blue and metallic. And it was wedged between my driver's side window and that fuzzy rubbery flap that swipes across the window surface as it is rolled down. I didn't have my camera on me and when I tried to look again it was gone--perhaps I will find its dried husk somewhere in my car tomorrow. The above picture is of a dragonfly nymph (stage 3) and an adult dragonfly (stage 4) from a display piece I got for Leah for her birthday last August.