What's left to mutilate?
The line ends here;
Flesh peeling burnt red,
A round supple ground,
A hair speckled gown
Of thin white paper
Burst and borne from sweat.

What's untouched to descimate?
The pond drained and paving,
One-tailed squirms found drying,
"These are full and healthy,"
Creeping white with stealth
The bubbled bump burns
Pussy scabs and reddened ringing.

My chest,
My eyes,
My dick,
I'll sigh and set the knife aside again.

The sky,
The ground,
A legacy,
What's done is done as though insane.

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