Puncture wounds
remand him to the prison of attending to the grand
guignol demand of selfish
body parts: insisting
on existing in a grumpy
dissolute autonomy:
ready to go off and sulk
and cause the rest of his
half-conscious frame
indifferent pain:
take him to the portal
of the mortal. Now he’s
passing gas: a razzberry
fat splat of fart. Life
does not resemble art.
But feel the lurid
surge and tingle:
look at all that red.
Can’t call this dead.
.
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