By Richard Featherstone
The first stars are coming out,
It itches.
I slice the tip off my thumb with a steak knife.
No blood from the crest.
Pointing perpendicular to nose.
I see no bone. No tissue. No crimson.
Rip off the skin quick.
A pulsating thing is born from severed tip....
The top socket flaps open, feelers emerging.
A vivid cerulean. A long projection, a snail-like head searching and crawling.
Situation Dreamlike: a strange creature growing from my epidermis and escaping.
Detecting scents with independent tentacles.
Orientates using eyespots.
It peeks out.
The room goes dark. Lit up by lightning flashes outside
And the thing crawls triumphantly from my clenched sticky fist to feast in my eyeball sockets.
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