Invisible Wounds

These wrists carry invisible wounds.

They lie beneath the ivory blanket.

So comfortable in its blood bed;

Waiting to flow down the empty

Lineless hands like the veins of the Nile.

So silent in its violence that the earless

Nymphs plead for forgiveness

With their empty malignant mouths.

This body that feeds this delusion

Aches with such a plethora of clarity

That the stumblings of mighty men

Who have preached the stained convenience

Of getting by.  The soulless heart

Who pretends to be friends with the others

Is restless within her marrowed cage

And she pumps razorblades.

Slitting the lifelines so as that

Pain becomes common, mainstream.

A surf beholden to the Lord's grain.

A routine that does not deviate from its path.

A black gift nestled in an infested warmth.

Producing memory-maggots, all-corrupting.

As unoriginal as the sun and

As stale as the people who inhabit this

Pale earth, rotating with it; slaves of gravity

With all of its made up gods that castrate the weak.

All these bodies living like Auschwitz.

Lining up on broken shoe-strings wondering

Why the ground is so vicious to their blistered feet.

Theirs knees are scarred from the jagged

Rocks hidden beneath the grass illusions.

Refusing to learn the lethargic

Lesson of giving up. But they continue to rise

Like a tide of persistence; breaking bones,

Scarring skin. And the envious watch with

Opal eyes, lidless, and all seeing.

Wishing to stay one with soil.

Letting the insects venture into every orifice.

Corroding their innards until they become

Filled, drowned in the biology

And inevitability of the entity called nature.

A beautiful idea that is as certain as death.

A soft satisfaction.


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