Veins like vines and red flesh to stroke my vanity
I am the flea king, marching on, north to south
a nomad but insane, bipolar. I suck from
ring worms and like friends. On the under belly
I dine, on dirt, and Lyme disease, to chase
tequila sunsets. I joined the circus and learned
to turn elephant tricks on a tight rope. Stretching
thinner and thinner and
thinner. Until I hang like phone lines
 
between towns. I sell my ticket home. I call god
using my anytime minutes. Stuck in an hour glass
quick sand under me. No time left. Spinning cocaine
cocoons, over me.
 
Hypothermia drips from my
pores, glass bones splinter, ants in
my eyes. Suicidal swan dives off ice cliffs,
into a teaspoon.
 
I sip it. Let crystals melt one by
one. Sip it slowly. Rest,
a heated blanket of rigor
mortis.
Iris Moon Benson is a senior studying Landscape Architecture and a student in the University’s Kidd Tutorial creative writing program. Any artistic submissions should be directed to [email protected].