Barry Graham

Sometimes, when I'm off, when the sunlight is just so, when I've cleared my mind of all things pertaining to how many gods does it take not to fuck this thing up, or if the universe is molecularly comprised and each individual atom at its core, is weightless, featherproof, then how long until we all collapse in amongst ourselves, or what do the insides of her fallopian tubes smell like, when my mind is cleared of us, cleared of you. Anticipating the minor miracle of electrode bang. That's when they all come crawling, starving and microscopic, to feed on the surface of my eyeballs, to sustain themselves at my expense, starving like dry science, like long forgotten aquatic lifeforms without the hope of evolution.