flesh is an unforgiving medium
weak and freely damaged
sickle-sweet prespiration
of rot
it is not where masterpieces are made

chisels, knives, chalk and scalpals
cannot undo corruption
only crassly hide it
tuckered behind the eyelids

sometimes wither and
sometimes thrive
the hearts in vats
of circumstanial poison
some have happy endings
or pathetic ones
and some have no endings
just a quiet curtain
that fell unnoticed
on a token character
some scenes back



what becomes of unused flesh?
bits and pieces
from here and there
the infrequent body

Usually, they drift down
the rotting river here
where no one misses it
or thinks to look for it

the legs are useless
so we burn them first
and turn the ashes into
tempered steel

thumbs and odd bits
make fine chain necklaces
and the skulls are oily chalices
full of warm sodium dreams

most organs are
dissolved in acid tinctures
to make stained glass windows
or turned into wallets



august as it always was
faded tangerine undersky
and trees of twisted wire
the duke's factory gushes
soot and steam
what goes in as pieces
comes out as machine

the man with no keys
says there's a spot of green
in our greying wasteland
the red bishop keeps imprisoned
twenty wilted cypress trees

but the only green I see
is in my last handful of pennies
for when the factory calls again

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