These skies match my thighs.
Rippled rain clouds that never bother to rain.
Old, cold, stretch-marked, vast and gray.
No blood reaches my skin: I'm pale.
No sun reaches the earth: it's stale.
No breathe of wind moves these clouds,
No breathe of motivation moves me.
I lie on the couch, stare at this sky, and wonder:
If I JUMPstart my system, generate -
circulate - palpitate away my fatty layer,
Would I manage to burn off these clouds?
Could I diet the sky to a svelte, sunny blue?
Unlikely. What should I make for lunch?
