The Surgery of Will
a practical incision.
remember, the sky’s the eye.
salvation’s in a current.
creeping through stark highways.
drained, the yawns fail to fool.
artifacts of neglected prophecy –
clotted memories, lesion-worry,
flaccid synergies, an internal cemetery.
a figure, coiled within shadows of worms
hissing silently, bloated and greyed.
shivering in the gelatins, it is Clarity;
the nude profound – she whispers:
hold me, take me, warm me…
only to insist: just don’t warn me.
I downtune the cello,
unsheathe the violin.
aching joints muster
a frosty hell:
nerves pluck indelicate.
a sole stingray of matter
severs out its second death
in shrieking astringency:
crescendi of doom;
the eggs of spider static now pierced,
the brood emerges only to scramble;
the queen’s scorn felt in the single blink
of a thousand retinas in retreat.
a squid-like propulsion emanates
from the spongy fissures.
has the generator ignited?
she prays for epilepsy.
bandages tear from the wound.
chaos seeps out in vulgar snakes.
the chemicals begin their waltz.
a shockwave disperses.
the cerebral ocean feeds
as the leeches finally still.
I, shed of substance & skin,
already a ghost; merely
driftwood on the sonar.
she, as if by eternal return,
divorced from Confusion,
the paramount mother,
the tempting mistress,