Cherished Like a Chaise Lounge or Something as Equally Gaudy



Leave legs out

to break compulsively and

with haste.


Not for the timid of heart:

sever the best parts—

from the inside.


The lacing of threads—

the shudder of a spine,

a smile that cracks a face.


The pangs of the compulsive—

broken legs and chairs;

arms rest damp and gutted.


Reclined, misplaced dreams:

only blood left to finger with,

blood cries so much more.




Stand around self-evident

like a pox or quake—

all blotch and shake.


Inside a head, down forelegs—

all fingered to break.

She massaged the bone.


Like girls at home,

casting shadows,

dissolves—over and over—


an old image, below a new one;

feet broken into bloody clubs,

bloody sharp and running away


like memories

as stains,

as compound fractures—and broken chair legs.


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