Fleshy Portmanteau (Cease)
So flexible am I
(Aye, look at me bend)
That I, Iphigenia, my Reflection
Have to instil some internal metronome
Something to track
To track movement and changes and turbulence and whimsy
To be translucent (sic empty) and therefore filled with clear light
To exist mainly as concept; sleeping easily with oneself because of it
And again writing flimsy words
Apocryphal
And which unpredictably all end up being about me
X
As every crest breaks its back I taste blood at the back of my back teeth
And I run my tongue along to savour ailment
One which I have to
Savour
Anyway
Metallic and dense and likely more substantial
Than most other elements that compose me, or rather,
The absence of things which compose that absence which, I, now, regard as ‘I’
Things I can grin with in the mirror (and all humour which follows)
And something that takes my hand and prods me gently to the opening act
Of a slaughter
X
With bulging veins and ravaged capillaries preach towards gallows
[Placeholder: Insert Name]
The whimpering dog whimpers are you trying to be funny
[No]
And I giggle at how pickles have become the most vital ingredient
And for the second time this week I’m at an eschatological rehearsal
And I’m absolutely pissing with sweat
Take my hand little sister before all intertwined fabrics dissolve
Finding no place for holy thorns nor what tends to spring up or weave amongst them
Finding no dreams wrapt in dreamingfoil, and a newfound barren now newfoundly cold, despotic
“May God grant you health and not forget me.”
