Kindling, and pile it high!
Flesh? Dogs and cats, to the boil-bath;
sacrificing to God, sacrificing to gods, and Her!
Do we have a heart? Find me pins and needles, and twine, and a hook
Insert through aorta, atrium, ventricle, ventricle, atrium, vena cava, and repeat!
Like pearls, wear it; WEAR IT! Wear it bleeding and staining your skin;
wear it balancing anvils on which were forged the most delicate of silver.
Toss it all in! Set to three years. Stir often. Sip now and then.
The smell is horrendous, but I am a man who believes in clothespins.
A scarf floats to the surface, a pen, a necklace, photos, pictures, lips.
Ladle those out; set them aside. Stir. Remove the remains; too hot!
Scars, scars on my hands! Plastic surgeon, ready the spare; I'll be there soon.
Still beating? Barely. Good. Cut the strings; rip them out.
Perform the operation. Then, galvanize, and pray, and pray,
and pray, and pray,
and pray. Observe.
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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
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