Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Today he drew a portrait of his pain.

Synthetic architecture – six connecting rods
implied inside a fat and bending tube of round
stiff pore-less vinyl flesh, revealing only at those
junctures where a curve had had to be assayed:

each sway and swerve, each change in route of which
exacts a brute resistant flush: abrupt insistent blush –
and stain – of pink, touched with a rabid yellow.
Suggests the sort of inward strain which were it

outside of this thick insensible un-breathing form
would bellow. Violently silent, here. Unseen within,
a queer dark airless spin holds all the Universe
at bay. He goes through every day this way.


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