Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Not Fond of Her Skin

belly pushed up the spine
skins thick
no room for to bare
clogged the plots
too hot for fruit
a buzz more like a gentle scrape against the lining
to sink? to float?
the acid throbbing
a holocaust of the nerves
what is the movement
from words to air to ear to brain to perception
to the trickle of noise
down the glands and into the stove?
a sojourn prime with fear
no reins with which to steer
a white hot needle
threading itself through your consciousness
scalding all your bloom
a hurt that slices straight to cement
I have none
take my guts and plasma
my own gift to you
my hallowed home of ribs will house your dread
my marrowed cage will be your cathedral
soon my vibratory howls will cease to quake you
and dreams will come
ever yours only yours
mine are motionless
a slumber void for a creaking mind

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