Downward the doctor’s hand
Lancet’s direction
A widening striation
My eyes held wide, whiteredded
Weeping in confination
Buttons of my body opened
Blood oceans out
Breached peach of cut flesh
Whales of my selves beaching
Cells each whole and part
Great things happened here once.
Threaded back together empty
Readied for cerecloth
I begged them not to eviscerate me
Nor to consign any portion of my living to flame
Yet the culprits are blameless in their participation
For the smell which is bidden from a corpse unridden
Of guts stinks worse than the abattoir’s midden
Where flyblown horseflesh rots unto tallow congelate
And glazed eyes of gentled, fattened cattle
Settle unto pale marmalade
My heart locket and visceral urns go missing
Used in twisted rites, whence mavens tryst
With giant-heighted, goat-hinded men
In ghost-minded glades, in battle-jaded glen
On rotstinking fen marsh, eel plenty.
Alchemisland 
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