Starskin

I was sick of being so tiny. A speck on a speck on a flash in the pan. Self expansion was called for.

I began with my eyes – it was the retinas that were important. I peeled the gluey little sheets out and stuck them firmly to the horizon.

I threw my lungs into the winds. Last I heard they were flapping outside a gas station.

My legs were hard and brittle. I chipped them into gravel and gave them to the road works. They’re now scattered like constellations in the tar – nudging bits of ancient shellfish and trilobite.

My hands I divided up fairly. I gave my thumbs to politicians and carpenters, my pointers to artists and scientists, my middles to soldiers and criminals, my rings to romantics and rebels. My pinkies I gave to some kids. (I heard they exchanged them for bubble tape.)

I tried to give my skin to beauty, but only with mild success. Scraps of it clung lecherously to the insides of thighs, but the rest turned grey and powdery and got swept away.

My hair I left for fashion (which was more than it deserved).

I planted my tongue in the soil – where the meadow grass sucked it up. It now hardens around the muscles of cattle, or the tastebuds burst into petals for bees. Most just sunk into the water table.

My heart, I packed firmly into the chest of my love. It was cruel stupidity that they were ever divided in the first place.

My brain formed a smooth paste. I smeared it over screens and between the pages of books. It greased the lips of pretty girls. To be honest, it ran away on me, and made a fucking mess. Like cocaine, traces of it can be found on every American bank note.

I gave my spine and nerves up to old age (had to be done).
Regrettably, my knuckles went to bruising. They cracked the bones of young and old, friendly and fierce. Always the same twisting and clenching. Always the dull, dizzy nausea.

My testicles I dropped in the hat of a busker. It was a gesture of respect, but I think she was confused.

I was convinced people needed to listen to the weather, so I gave it my teeth as hailstones. Sorry if they chomped down on your car bonnet – I was feeling idealistic.

I gave my eyelids to theorists, there was a lot to read on the back of them.

I left my smell for my pets; my voice for my family; laughter for my friends and my songs for the drunk.

I poured my blood into the ocean. I thought it would help with the oxygen problem, but it mainly upset the sharks.

I left my hope to religion. It was only small, so I figured there was no harm in it.
My ambition fancied to become lightening, and drifted into the clouds. It was a relief to everyone when it blew away.

Finally, I gave my doubt to the thinkers - and as I roared and yawned and sprouted and splattered and fucked and clunked and supernova’d and chirped - They had a good laugh, and joked that I still wasn’t any bigger than when I’d started.