Sunday, December 16, 2007

I don't finish anything

I am not the man who can pull
The lamb from the womb for the sake of her wool
The blood on my hands is mine so far
But for what remains in stains under nail
Without fail when I've reached one hand white
With fingers tight, without light enough for haste
Against grace bunched at hips
And her sepulchre cunt
So far from cold, it is full to its brim
With ghosts
An oubliette hollowed of flesh
So hot with forgetting, and consequence
The shock and harm of their grinding makes no oven
But like some other world's natural heat
It cannot be explained with our words.

I am the man who pulls out the blood
Stopped up and crude, I am burning with love
I am seared by my love.


Blogger Andrew Gabriel Rose said...

I am my own Person From Porlock.

9:58 PM  

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