whore of babylon

Don’t you want to know details?
It isn't surgery for the soul. 


I opened up from the neck down,
My torso cracked apart like a dead cow.
They want my meat still.

You could take out my heart, 

Dissect it.
I’m your favorite science project.

They say you only become beautiful

After the biggest tragedies;
Pieces litter the ground to form a red carpet.

The sorrow in your eyes catches on film,
And those cameras
Soak up your misery, a dirty rag.

The only use for these trash magazines, 

They mop up the blood when you get too obscene.
And now, what can you be?

Nothing more than a vintage Polaroid,
Quaint as the time from which it came;
We would shake it out,

Lay it down to dry.
Well, that time has passed.
I cut it in half.

I must preen my ruffled, bejeweled feathers,
Sit on my throne of demands,
Perch as stately as a peacock.

Humor you,
And your fucking complaints -
Grate on my skin like dirty nails.

Just like the Polaroids,
The sunlight catches you, 

Little points sprinkle over my skin,

Like gunshot wounds,
About seventy of them. 

I’m open, a watering can.

Pour my blood over your lilies -
They would appreciate my honesty.
Shoot a hole through my neat photography.

But not everyone can be like me.
All saintly and frayed at the edges,
I wear my pride like your coat.

You put me in a coma. 

I wish the IV would erase any trace
Of you tearing through my veins.

I want to wake up,
Feel the blood sluggishly pump,
Hear the rhythm beat a tattoo in my ears.

My heart is in my head, 

We’re starting to think in the same patterns.
Is this what it’s like to love rationally?

This is a spiritual meditation,
An exact question about anticipation,
Series of signals misinterpreted –

Then reinstated like a political official.
Creatures of habitual formality,
Prey on the institutions of nerve endings.

I am most sensitive at the fingertips,
Close my eyes, feel my way along
Your neck, spine and clavicle.

I don’t have to remind you
I’m still watering your lilies,
Feeding you some half-truth,

Wasting time among the living,
When I could be passing through.
But for tonight,

My malleable body spells out lust
In the nest of your cotton sheets.
Pray for midsummer like a martyr.