Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Taper me by slivers

down to the bone

make every inch hurt

from the first flake of skin

to the last crack of marrow,

accurate and exacting

organs abound

neatly in their place

forever caught between

thin sheets of glass

bloodless but sanguine

in their immortality.

Split them for your own

science or pleasure;

look at them, look at me,

look at you, flying in between

my hips and dreams,

my screams and lunch,

my brain and shoulders,

my hands and love;

find the music inside me

draw breath from your nostrils or

just draw my nostrils,

sketch my winding globular soul.

Then reassemble my surgical home

and wholly see my painted smile

eyes shut in what I believe

is the heaven-ascension,

a portrait dream

of a white smocked-God,

my ichor rivers still running

down his beautiful body,

a cloud in the sky rifts open

and I am sent up slide by slide.

The fragments of my lambent heart

pulse light between the breaking glass.

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