Stuck In A Jar

If I count on the hours to happen
regularly, I’d be stuck in
a jar, afraid of measurement against
anything.

Instead, my cells vibrate against
all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
locked brains, eating for the
sake of eating.

I have only been substantial forever.
Nothing more. Just my face,
along with legs, and hands that
move like a floppy clock.

But my name, now that is something.
Every hour that comes,
every hour that goes,
will remember my name,
just the way my cells will remember
how small I am,
like an ant stuck in a jar,
burning from the most toxic hour.

ZombieBleach.

Rid these monsters of reflection.
Mirrors are vomiting
bleach blonde
bitches.

Pretty, vapid
chlorine
burns evidence of authenticity.

Keep their unsightly roots away!
I have grown my garden of
validity
over years of exiguous soil. Chemicals
will kill me.

Lost? Indeed! On every climate,
heads over porcelain, hoping
to
heave in that enamel gloss,
they export
beauty with unique finger tips;

to be a reflection
of another one,
somewhere!