{(Iris)}Imperfecta.exe

Something running down my eyes; my eyes running like an egg yolk. Touched up with fountain pen dots, impersonating black holes. Something behind my eye; twisted spaghetti nerves. Stethoscope-as-a-tie-wearers refused to look for too long; didn’t want to get sucked in. Several moons returned; can of wormholes still opened. It’s working against me; outer monologe turned to inner conundrum. Cylinders with hemispherical ends are the shape of the impaired. Again, who’s absorbing whom? Cut off the midst of the fingers on a rubber glove. Moons start melting like hot wax, just like my eyes. Infinity’s the time of heart, not a natural phenomenon.