One mighty slip ago,
The ever spooling thread,
Yes, the mendable,
The River contained with mercury,
Changed lanes and bled away,
Hithertofore unseen, this state,
Hanging like an upturned pedestal,
Or a person strung up at the feet,
With so much blood escaping,
To the bottom, or the former top.
Tomato soup it looks like,
Is brewing in the head,
Chunky rhythms and little rivers,
Come out the ears like untended slop,
It boils and bubbles, escaping at the rim,
Spurting glop at heated moments.
It all pertains to the upturned state,
The affairs that have been mixed up.