Song of the Millipede

International Rock-Flipping Day 2010

I lived like a hundred-legged king in the faceprint of an idol who followed my every move. What drew me to that house made of twilight, whose rooster swelled like an ingrown toenail trapped between toe & shoe & never flew? With floor turned ceiling, where would the weather vein? What rod would rout the lightning root? Unreal estate no bank would back, underwritten only by undertakers, each inch of space had been stolen from a grave. From time to time, I caught the musky scent of soured hope & snuffled for Persephone at the foot of the missing stairs.