A poem about boiled eggs
What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly?
Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist.
The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding.
If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane.
I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process.
That way the eggs feel at home.
It’s like they never left the shell.
I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell.
I incubate my dreams in the shell.
That’s where I live.
*snap snap snap snap snap snap snap*
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Smoking in his man-sized shell
A thousand poems that man did tell. 🎶
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How did you know I’m smoking?
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You’ve let us peek in your egg. ;))
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Yeah. It’s a weird place.
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I’m feeling like it’s ok…
Nice beatnik kind of vibe today. 🎶
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I took a trip yesterday while listening to Kerouac.
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Listening to Kerouac? How does one do that? Audiobooks or some
other kind of track?
I’m still halfway through On the Road…
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He put out a few recordings.
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A stunning & cozy piece about eggs. I too have shared moments with them;-) I shall reblog one this weekend! Peace✌
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