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Down Syndrome
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Blind

Chris Butler

    My eyes
    have seen the light breathe beneath the pillowed clouds of moonless nights, and beyond that cigarette burnt infinite ennui eclipsing the expiring decalcified galaxies, through cracked lenses spiraling subterranean spider webs across the cavernous surface of my unconscious mind.
    My eyes
    shine twin yellow crescents, to incomplete darkness.
    My eyes
    scan with callused hands the great barren american landscape, lackadaisically searching tan plains for desiccating oases suspended over the vanishing smog horizon, while lying parallel in contorted fetal positions inside foggy plastic bubbles peeling to reveal rays of transcendental days.
    My eyes
    split into drifting double vision, focusing on nothing.
    My eyes
    were once sewn shut to the world, seething weekly while simmering with vegetable lobes in steaming stews of iodized saline solution and rubbing alcohol, until made aware of the arid air lingering longer within the patched atmospheric pressure persistently pushing against my compressed chest.
    My eyes
    center my universe, unequally balancing equilibriums.
    My eyes
    enhance these seven senseless senses, as cartilage appendages consisting of waxed drums beat compositions of distorted noise and nostrils serve allergenic stuffing in drips, draining down sinuses to replant tart taste buds among fertile tongues when my phantom pains become unnervingly numb.
    My eyes
    peripherally perceive depressive depths, shooting blood spots to map out hollow earth and shallow oceans of stagnant white waves in each compassed direction, unturned on a warped axis in spastic orbits gravitating towards open flames posing as unplanned planets with toupee heavens.
    My eyes
    feed steadily on orange carotene, from god’s illegitimate sun.
    My eyes
    consist of bucketing black puddles entitled pupils, tracing imperfect circles in sequential in circumference to the surrounding brown irises defecating truths of shit, to project repressed memories as impressionist images and scattered surrealist dreams refracted through depreciating hues.
    My eyes
    hide inside shaded red skin lids, tanning between random periods of rapidly repetitive blinking spasms of tourette’s twitches with nervous ticks, rolling over desiccating moss molding in the secluded corners of rotting sockets amongst the reaping shadows of frivolous decomposition.
    My eyes
    bruise into blackened blue ripening fruits, blooming only once.
    My eyes
    sting from the showering ashes and acidic embers of burnt lashes, rubbed in with tensed fists covered in razor barbed follicles, sweating salty streams of trickling tickling bodily fluids down the wrinkling eroded valleys formed from fractured crow’s feet onto bottomless dirt floors.
    My eyes
    tumble from the wormholes in my unpolished shakespearean skull, dangling strung out with loosened shoestring yo-yos knotted together, acting with equivalent and opposite reactive twirls around the spinning windowless room, until busying dizziness hovers over hallucinogenic visions.
    My eyes
    fly higher than the limitations of my detachable head, when pogo libidos with springing brain stem cells bounce rhythmically to foreign beats, standing over the silent picture of differentiating indifferences to living colors from atop hills of infertile soil lazily grazed by lamb fed children.
    My eyes
    close slowly as the single witness to blissful ignorance, blinking smokeless signals from fire pits furious with intoxicating oxidized molecules, like an extinct species deemed obsolete by ancient beings claiming to be human when they see everything except exactly which exists before them.
    My eyes
    in twenty/twenty hindsight, have both gone blind.



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