There are jellies in the bowl, shaped like eyes— blue, black, green, brown— veins detached, beckoning sirens of wonder and one’s left wondering – when do we become dead bodies floating in the clouds? So, you pick the color brown? Goddamn, that’s a pretty eye.

It sees right into the moons inside you. Into all your attempts of barely managed mediocrity. They want to see Mount Everest but they don’t see shit. God died in 1883 but inside the eyes is a dot and in that dot is a god.

Pupils dilate in swimming pools and there’s an electric, bright haze. Akin the blue eyes that scream red and true. Blueberry eyes, sweet to taste; a question on their lips, they must say— What do you see when you see me? Hiding petty scars and generations in her hips.

I see you, you see me. Oh, what a mess! Perhaps you believe everything happens for a reason, so the black eyes wonder – war zones take children hostages and mothers die on their deathbeds. The last they see are palms with tar skin, shredded guts and dire, broken faiths.

Heart line is a defeat. Is it written in the stars or do the guns write their destiny? Green eyes are rare, shaped like marbles and kitchen counters. Tangy and ripe to have. Is it better to have a good thing and lose it or never to have had it? We die at the end and everyday in anticipation. Beating hearts marching to the sound of the beating drum.

The bowl has a nose that bleeds, lips that scream, but the eyes…Oh, the eyes. They are drawing chess boards inside her mind. Go on, pick a favorite, eat some. Nom. It tastes like the blood of Mary— a concoction of all she had to see, all she still does.

Sweat on the beard, manly eyes flickering to the chest and staying a second longer, rain on lashes when the world becomes an orb, a blob. Wave to the plane that’s passing by in the sky, they can see you sure, sure. Green light, red light, stop.

Golden eyes cut through the veins and is it that important to its hold contact? They are poisoning them on their deathbeds, we can’t help but see. Eyes spread wide as they murder you down in a lucid dream. Black and white stripes become— gray— eyes— how can I forget?

They carry the rich truth of life – some are born lucky, some are born inside the coffins they die in. Gray eyes are the reflections of barely made silhouettes— do they see you or the persona catered for special twenty-year olds? Ordering a different version of yourself tonight then? Oui, chef. C’est la Vie.

Mornings are for prayers, in afternoons eyes sleep and the nights are for brain-dead fantasies. The god in your chi is awake for all three. Our eyes are jelly, they stay unaltered. Like us, the good, old members of a perfect, polite society.

Bluebells chime when innocence is lost but our girls never get their childhoods— carrying memories of dirty bastards, singing bastard hymns since they were ten. Too young, they see different eyes and it’s many shades.  Pick a color, which one do you want now? None? God damn.

Suck the marrow right out. Let’s wrap it then. Classes are fucking boring; sky, trees and leaves are inside a little wooden box. Sun’s an open wound, truth is never true and her heart is running last in the race. Fear not, add a verse into your pathetic play. Churn your hand into the jelly bowl.

Follow the instructions, don’t lead astray— select an eye, color it pretty, dress to kill, bring a knife to a gunfight and twist open your prey.