Stingrays Asleep

Storm-cloud delves like a faucet through my being.

Receptionist dances with flavors of seeing.

On certain nights, with our circuitry,

I swear I hear the world fall asleep.

Brand new promotion, I’m tired like my thermostat.

Wormholes and axes and scourges of men flaunter.

Pollution of life — family doesn’t give back sometimes.

Find a nest and try to feel alright.

I won’t be home for Thanksgiving this year.

I’m sorry, I’m not guilty, although I think I am.

Campaigns — seances — fiancés — matinees;

Phone sucking porridge brain.

Bony fish, dead on beach,

So far out of reach with an intact eye

That glistens like diamonds inside the earth’s core

When the water wets all of the roots.

Ribs coughed up out of sand,

Slimy fish-skin melts in heat,

Creaking deceased like decrepit church floors

While the knight mounts his horse.

Rice in a spoon right by my mouth.

Head calm and floating through these lights and sounds.

I wonder what would be

if these walls weren’t here, 

if the weight of the world

felt like a lion’s amount.

My coffin lint feels like a cloud.

I worked until the sun burnt out.

I kissed her and she moaned

with satisfaction.

My dog curls up on his side,

Sleeping by my own two feet.

Thunder soothes from outside.

I turn off the lights. 

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Dylan James is an emerging writer based out of Columbus, Ohio. His fiction and poetry have appeared in Trembling With Fear, Metonym Journal, Gypsophila Magazine, and more. Find him on Instagram @dylanthomasjames.