Scalpel

Your life support is wonderful,

but oh, this loneliness is virginal.

My little chased hand,

chided and bound to a gash,

your chest. Oh oh, my honey, Sir.

A queen-backed radiance comes limping

down my smile,

hanging on barely by the threads of its

handsome appearance.

Your caut’rized phrasing jumbles up all the

meanings as my slipped-under skeleton cracks

‘neath the pressure of dead weight.

And a scalp so rich and flowering over

with fervent threads, loosely tied to

a mind of ‘scapes and a cauldron of fever;

sweet callus fingertips with

confectionary coating,

smoothed over lips, over lips, lips.

He pieces out the Judas veins

with the medicinally practical tool,

brings the output to me and

my nude shell of a body…

beauty is here bourne, beauty is here,

beauty is.

Here, in this place off the line of

tedious, yet, flawlessly set breastbones,

jealous thought of biting proportion

is wrought.

As his last, harmonious words

are pulled in a straight, string

assembly line from the

broad back of conscious thought,

the coroner smiled with

fermenting lies spun

‘round a wicked tongue.