Xenon

Sickeningly sweet of the melon gourd
Would you unravel the meat of my mind, slain along the ground
To eat to eat
Would you eat the pumpkin seeds of my body
Crack open my ribs and slide your gracious fingers
along the shimmering gemstones of my innards?
Would you would you would you

To weave myself apart in front of this audience
Eyes float up on the surface of my body
Popping pustules of sights and knowledge on my hands and neck
My blood my blood my blood
To be negative, the love of the enzyme, to carry
Would you wade into the viscous, red ocean of my devotion to you?
Would you kiss the throat and wrists, cut to the white
White muscle, empty of life and allow myself beside you?
Is there a world in which I am not inert?

The satiated honey dew of the evening
The sweaty kiss of the breeze on your poor shoulders
When is it, when is it
What is a good time to lay the stigmata upon oneself?
To kiss the open flowing wounds of . . . . .
Pearls on the wire flows to your feet, they kiss the earth from whence you came
They kiss the soul conglomerate to whence you are returning
Now

Can one feel Prometheus?
You too have a liver. Where is it? Can you hold the wet pulsing muscle in your hands?
Where is the eagle?
Can you hear the trumpets calling
Calling, the time is near and repeating and cyclical.
It is all cyclical, three-sided life of yours.
This shapeless-tangible-breathing life that you’ve built around yourself.
The cardboard you choose to live in.
The rain and thunder are approaching the horizon.

The flitter flutter of jewels and grass clink against the bones of your daughter
The eagle is coming, where are your chains?
The freedom of sentience will not save you from the fate of the fruit,
Swollen and ripe, bursting along the ground, aching and reaching for the act of consumption.
And so the talons descend.
White and quick and full of fire.
You do not yet bleed.
Breath for a moment
Do you feel empty this time?
Maybe another will change your mind.
Lay back down upon the warm stone, feel the starlight falling through the windowsill.
Stretch and purr and imagine you are anywhere else but here!
The berry patch calls.
Will your harvest make it home this time?
Or once again will you lay bare and wet for the vulturous worms?