I closed my eyes and all I could see were brains!
A grey and pink mass of twisted pasta ideas.
They are not my thoughts, nor my pulsating cells.
I have neither.
I sit in a cave like long-lost slave watching others live.
Plato dances behind, laughing and pointing out my mistakes.
“Oh, piss on your flames, you glib git.” I call over my shoulder.
He holds up a book.
I say, carrot, just to get a reaction from the sandal wearer.
He stamps and talks of form like it’s the be-all and end-all.
I don’t want this anymore, so I bite the chains, push him into
The flames of the fire.
If in fact they are flames and
He was Plato.
The shadow he left says
They usually do.