It has pink and gray cliffs and caves;

red crevices and sausage rolls.

They squeeze me with radio waves

and shove me into scary holes.

This land has bridges for crossing

To slippery, slimy, sludgy.

Sparkles spark sprinklers of saucing,

spreading air to swollen pudgy.

You ask why go and spend time there.

If I didn’t go I’d feel dead.

My brain is the Smushy I wear.

I like to spend time in my head.