Fever 104

Whatever these pink things meant,
they mean nothing now;
like skin, like bubble gum
between lips suffering under
abrasive mastication, all pure -
what did it mean? -
touch relinquishes with time,
vanishes from soul and mind;
I can recall only laceration.

Parallel to the parabola of
your back, my heart thumped,
the ventricles pumping greedy and
empty, empty like
those cold oil eyes
and these four walls, your
promises, the passion that came
in disguise - hide, whores,
we're puzzle pieces and you are
the interior eager to fill us in.
To speak is to admit
and to admit is to regret,
an emotion I'll not entertain.
So, enter vain clairvoyance,
struck me with cowardice
and a shallow razor cut.
Lacerate.

This creaking carcass croaks
in disdain, joints dislocated, cracked
skin adjourned to pale ash.
The itch of your
fingertips trembles through me like
worms through mud, you
devoured my sour tongue,
lechers are we and riddled with disease.

The sin. The sin.

Lacerate and
love, love make me wretch
and I leapt into
a bath drawn with a chill
to match my ache, my scrapes
sting beneath the stagnant surface;
I've not moved now for a day.
My reflection in the water,
"You've no cognition of the
damage you've rendered -
sycophantic incubus, incubate
in me, the decay from the outside in.
What purity? What pink things?
Nothing."

So, remorse has claws,
naivete is no excuse and,

flayed, I am too dirty for you or anyone.
My body
hurts me as the world hurts God.