Saturday, May 29, 2010

clean scissors, I beg
for rescue, for a pin
to tend the pain: pink
not newly, slit red
then blue. In purple
liquids I store
the pulse: thump
thump in the dark
narcotics. Fizz-
winged, my fissures
shore: approach
the winking beacon
of a still-life body:
smooth and porous, pried
free from every
pinching reign: stung
veins and stony ventricles.

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is this real?