The Opiate, Fall Vol. 7
Narcissus, tulipa, cerebral cortex Jackie Sherbow The flower of my brain is a tulip, too closed or too open. The flower of my brain is an egg-yolk daffodil: too loud, too organic, too ugly, too silly, too like something else. The dusty acorn of your brain is unknown to me. It needs more vitamin D. It is tired. It makes you cough and snore. It loves me no matter what. The cloudy quartz of my brain is from both of our sometime territories. The glass eye of your brain sees me, but not clearly. It knows what brains are actually made of and do. Blood and nerves. It knows which side controls which big hand. The skinned knee of my brain almost sees it all, almost has the magic word, almost has that starburst tulip, almost has that ochre daffodil—almost gives them both to you.
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