𝔢𝔤𝔤𝔰

the egg yolk like a sun in a milky matrix

eggs and their shells, vertically held are uncrushable in your palm

he broke eggs in his palm for me and I'd break them on the side

frying eggs in a pan makes me think of him, how he lived in spite of the fragility of our body and mind

i think of him when the sun sets, bright orange, surrounded by a membrane of clouds and blues

or reds and pinks; like it is a necessity the clouds color for a yawning sun on a sad day as it is

for the egg to form life when the warmth of the waiting world is right


sometimes I feel like I can't feel my body's pleasures

my cognitions exist in a parallel reality to the body

i run and run and run and run and run and freeze, for hours, paralyzed

i cry in the daylight in deep joy or sadness, it comes on me and leaves, separate from my thoughts

i dreamt of watching myself or a girl aborting eggs in a house of mirrors

eggs slithering from my sex like an alien angel, like a heavenly molten metal

i chased the feelings latent in the dream towards new futures

but now it lays dormant, a new one, writhing to be cradled or broken


is our mind like the yolky sun in the center of a swarming ooze of protein information like an egg, locked in by a

strange skin - reaching out, trying to describe and feel the world from within layers of necessary obfuscations

artaud's last writings; the omelette of poison, cyanide and capers thrown to the face.

to feel the body expand into eternity, the mind in full nervous stimulation

few crack the shell, and when they do, contents pour out in a horrible flood

so we stay, in waves of warmth and cold, hoping for the conditions to hatch a new being

i have to crack the shell, in my own palm, ends to the sun and dirt