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�1996 Darien Mathius
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the glamorous life of a poet the empty bottles carcasses encasing sweetest nectar
the afterglow of paid sex sweat glistening on heart-pounding bodies shallow breaths hard and fast creative processes ticking away in drained brains i read her some of my poems
the glamorous life of a poet drinking thinking waiting waiting between small badly needed checks waiting for quick bursts of creative energy to write until the pen sloppily spills its ink free to ejaculate words onto paper until editors underscoring voices of glamorous life tell why they're not looking for that kind of work right now |
i use a large rubber band to cut the circulation blood stops flowing after a while arm turns red a little pain then blue line the leather strap between my teeth in preparation go through the task of choosing an unmarked vein it comes down to three i tap the middle one it is the fattest squeeze the hypodermic the elixir fires a mist spray of priceless liquid i push with my thumb on the vein blue grey the tip of the needle sinks into it slow i push it submerges sinking deep i squeeze and it flows slow into the blue worm it moves like most worms constricting firing forward constricting it sweeps in flushing waves straight to the heart and then brain i smile worm smiles heroin smiles |
delicate, crooked fingers trace over my scars, tenderly. "what precious skill! who has crafted this masterpiece?" i look down at the deep scars on my arm and grin wickedly. "the skill is my own. do you want?" "yes." her voice is like a wind blowing softly across my face, and whispering in my ears. vindictive, wicked smile, look, my craft, my skill, to trace, trace, plunge deep to draw blood. art. |
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within to find thy soul. who are you? colored rooms scream -- where is he? and then the watcher must stop there; i must go on. |
there is beauty in scratches beauty in scars beauty in a dancing razor in the delicate art of bleeding flesh but this craft is left to the few skilled skin tracers |
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written in flesh; i touch it, running fingers over quivering skin. fingertips. admiring beauty, my muse. i smile. |
