I am dragged
through this sludge of sky.
I am of a stench,
I cannot know.
I am held together
by a membrane of scars.
I am bundled
but maybe only as a heap.
When the angels turn to face me,
they have waxed lips
with perfect smiles
and antiseptic secretions drip
from their hands
and they all stare
at the bowl of my hollow gut.
I stare too, directed
from their consensual gaze.
Looking down at a me, that way,
I could be a chopping block.
But no, no
it is an altar of me
for breaking my bones.
Yes, there is no question
of blood that has dried.
This must be me
as my only artifact.
My instrument of self
fashioned from anguish and stone.
It maybe concave
but looks like a drum.
A bowl, a drum,
it is a residence for poundings.
What goes on in me there
is a war room rhetoric
of numbing and pain.
There are coded messages
of rebuttal, muted
but in a floundering way.
My heart is in pieces of handouts
crumpled and thrown away.
These angels must carry me off
as my coffin is
the embodiment of me.
I sense no delight
in the procession they've made.
They attend to me
as a crime scene
with a squeamish silence
of ingratiating disdain.
What I am faintly forced fed to see
is that,
that has wasted upon itself
and yet looking like me.
It is aged for its efforts to bond
and be liked.
It is ravaged for its efforts
into repulsive results.
Who is at guts of these feelings?
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