Annie Przypyszny
SOLILOQUY FROM INSIDE THE COCOON
It’s nice,
being soup.
Serene, spa-warm,
all velvet
and hum.
Like being hooked
to the Pleasure Machine,
which everyone says
they wouldn’t choose
over reality,
even though….
I feel
good. I didn’t
always— once
I was fat
and slow
with a fake snake-face
that fooled only
the stupidest birds.
Then I was stripped
of solidity,
a huge
and perfect loss.
I sink
into the gel of myself,
pellucid
as a planet so vaporous
no astronomer can taint it
with a name.
I won’t acknowledge
the return
to the terse
violence of form,
the endless assault
of noise and stench
and colors.
I won’t imagine
my life smuggled back
into body:
the antennae
and their stopless sensations,
the two gross wings
that bully me
into flight.
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