The Stain of Thought On the Body

Thought-bone reaches For the measuring tape- scribbling a plan to escape Low and Behold! The unchecked corners of morass Have globbed my throat with glass So as thought goes to consecrate, I must wait, passion coiled Soon, the primate strand articulates- I'm lost in boiling black water, Exotic affairs reappear Spleen is churning As I beat out towards the street Quads burning, chest brazen A deeper level still- Primeaval insurgency Inflames all reason and doubt Then, as breath returns to itself Thought regains composure Pondering, planning, scheming