|
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. |