Blood in the ears, in the mouth, and the nose.
Blood in my eyes, in my hair, on my clothes.
The blood in the heart neatly stays in its
Like pictures of highways, and Hemingway's prose.
But the blood on my forehead falls in streams down my
With red trails of seduction wherever it goes.

Blood in my nose, and its coppery smell
And the blood on my collar remind me of Hell,
Though the blood in my eardrums pounds out two
The rest thrives on chaos, a spring from a well
Running deep on a face, fed by wounds fed by
While the blood in my heart is so quick to rebel.

The blood, as my pulse is beginning to fade,
Congeals on my face like a danse-masquerade,
And the pounding wears thin through the mask as it
Like more motion would threaten the art it has made,
Or show through its cracking what, underneath,
Is pale skin, which found scarlet a more worthwhile trade.