Flake, my Flake 7/6/09

Fuckflakes in a dark place—
I could feed my fish with you.

To entrust to you my grief and love—
glassy sores overcrusting amber silver honeycomb marrow:
you spread a message
of communicable autoimmune chaos
through every fragile vibrating cell in this hate-filled body
of toxic contradictions and
caustic abnormalities
I curse as my ownfucking Home.

—'twould be death.
You are bright.
Why will you not love?

Your lungs are flushed raw.
Moist copper arises to glisten over your
as-yet-unused larynx; glossed epiglottis
so underused—

But as you run, the telling wind and its surplus diseases
carry away your sins, your infections,
your misexpressed infidelities.

Why will you not love?

Flake, who are you?

And why have we both come



(again)



to this heightened hilltop-peak—
to speak, although we do not speak;
to see with these rheumy useless eyes
and touch with glassblistered fingers and lips—
white precancerous fiberglass tears
and heart soul-skin
bone-skull
rips—

and Flake, where is your mother? Flake, my flake,
who are you
to be so unloved?

Fear seeks you out, strikes poison in you
(toe-to-head)
as the fishes nibble.

Round, glassy
eyes.

Fear seeks you out again,
strikes you with more than poison—
and so too do I seek you out:
you, striking—
in me—
more than fancy.

And how long will we be dancing?
These sores must surely rupture.

Fuckflakes in a bad place;
Fuckflake's in a bad way.