flipping an egg around the edges
of a magical pan (one that doesn’t stick)
and my brain floats to trepanation,
and how my skull would be bored into
by hand, with cranial drill squeaking
closer toward my brain as inquisitors
chatter over the pan and ask themselves
(while their sycophant continues to bore me)
“how does the egg not stick to the pan?”
and of course this knowledge is inside my head.
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...