Dandelion Eyes by AG Davis Useless dandelion eyes penetrate and excrete a bitter seething insect mass embedded deep within the fossilized dizzy wound of my finger, a soft yellow transportation device pointing at an opaque plastic moon and counting off numerical sequences resonating with a beating monotone blood ringer. The occult of the summit of a finger bleats extinct and hammers the coordinated origin of an elliptic nerve plant, a doppelganger reaching through the surface of a battered but reupholstered walrus projecting its sensory hairs into an embroiled flood of metallic wires and gangrened implantation devices. Crippled shimmering meat cleavers run austere and tireless waves around a tied and decapitated foot-hydra, a manic shriek piercing from their wooden beaks and surmounting the top of a beached and bleeding catheter tube. Someone unfasten this crimson belt, unsnap my delirious not me, and shoot a chandelier filled with all the dreams of a million young invalids.