by on October 8, 2017 :: 0 comments

My body wakes up to get stubbed
I have holes in my belly
I taste of imprints of nail cracks, pencil points,
grey and brown of paper, page and canvas
my lungs cough out whiskers like shavings
of my tangible body
I taste of my own departure
soul leaving body leaving soul
part by part in threads of what I was once clothed
I smell of sweat and palms and pokes of points
I smell of a gutter of an artist family
I bend and thump and puke my service out
at the knees of their fingers
fat flesh strangles my breadth
the inch of my length makes music
the one a rape victim would howl
when his voice box is on mute
I wonder if we’ve had a voice at all?
when they shred my leftovers
part by part, I see teeth and claws
scraping off the plastic gown
I can smell my death at a feet’s distance
The bin-yard waits for banter
slaughter is religion and recreation
of art.
there, I hope I’ll rest.

editors note:

And, until that time – we create. (We welcome Aekta to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of her madness on her new page – check it out.) – mh clay

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