cuts to bone

When it cuts to the bone how does it feel...

                ...I can't recall - I am all bone...

...are you constantly bleeding...

                ...only marrow and memories

There is an impromptu interlude

of improvised music,

a voice lilting into a groove

fashioned from off key notes,

 crooning sounds of inhumane behaviour

spun from fibres and redden tissue

rubbed too hard

for too long so its shine has

worn to a mottled russet.

She can be seen no longer (as herself)

 flesh painted with fingerprints,

                there is no Botticelli touch

brush strokes have been hard

                heavy with a pummelling motion

until purple pools

at the surface,

they say there  are four thousand tears to weep

under lace and sounds of Puccini

If we (I am, I do) feel the raging passion of perversion

laid out across an abdomen

scars open to the air

who will pick over the remains,

                I fear I cannot stay here long enough

to hold onto myself (lovingly)

without holding my head under water

                beyond the count of one hundred

After years of solitude...there is an urge to breathe you

back to life

allow you to do it all again.

                They say...it must be so

I have been to Venus

                and back

but fear I have lost myself somewhere in the middle,

I am reaching my own event horison

laying hererupturing thoughts,

                should have known better

than to stand my ground,

there was a delicate intricacy

in the beauty of uncertainty.