Miserable, distraught, devastated, in pain,
he thrashes the lines out of himself;
he thrashes the lines out of himself;
the blows mercilessly rain
n he flings himself ruthlessly
at his table, hopin to come alive again.
He tears out his innards - bloody grime -
and just places them there - the squishy pulp -
still attached to him with strands of slime;
too distraught to bother ‘bout
arranging them, to look for patterns, rhyme.
Disillusioned lovers, they say, are known to be
creatively mutilative;
most use it as the canvas, but he,
uses his body as the medium, hurtin, dying,
putting it all out thru poetry.
Red muscle, silvery tendons, and bones,
white n still moist, chopped up in dull thuds,
blotches of organs crushed by stone,
reticulated veins, mashed up nociceptors,
and the centrepiece: an intact eyeball alone.
He reaches for his nape,
grips the back bone, and rips it out
in one smooth lashing motion.
Sweeping a bloody curve above his head,
shattering it to bits on his table, and his notion
of love, even as he collapses, feelingless, for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment