Black Blood – S.M.H.

April 9, 2020

Surgery

 

I know what surgery is.

I know what

surgery

is

 

I know what can happen in the 

room beyond 

all rooms

I know what can

happen in that 

holy place of horror

I know what can happen in the

drugged pain of sleep

 

organs are moved removed added subtracted

distended stretched gobbled 

 

in frenzied high 

strangers look

with white coats 

no underwear

rock hard and thrusting

in the room of

strange light

 

 

in the room of strange light 

the glassy sun

drying organs 

pulsing in the bloodhard

redness of humping 

 

 

the glassy sun

beating ashy fingers

that achingly fondle the

pulsing of my blood 

of others blood

of the blood that runs 

and pounds in

the mystery of crotch

in the mystery of sore and 

half hard genitals 

 

 

what

mutilation happens behind 

closed doors 

 

 

bleach 

smells of bleach 

steep into  lungs

pores

skin

fibers of hair that run the arm

tufts that run the back

stink of clean in the sweating body 

nostrils wide as horses

flared 

in the sweating body of fear

 

 

Sepsis

 

inside the bag of liver 

the bag of colon

the shit holder of

the body

 

sepsis flowed through  blood 

like salmon swimming 

into the womb

of disease 

 

the dream of sepsis 

births stranger ways 

of seeing

 

the dream of sepsis 

swells in the blood

like river water 

fills the air with

the smell of 

old logs 

rotting leaves 

the soft stink of muck 

in the hospital bed

 

clean white sheets

rotten

with fecal sweetness 

 

poison blazing 

through veins

like rain 

filling a trash can

 

the dream of sepsis 

is not

a dream at all 

but a long black hallway 

full

of black mirrors 

 

the dream of oblivion

is 

no-light of light of no light

the dream of oblivion 

is the sun of 

no-sun

 

 

The Dead

 

in the sweat of your blood

the sun died

your hair slicked back

with the sheen

of black blood

 

the sun died

in the burnt soot

of your breathing

in the black scab

of your head

in the black scab

of the pavement 

where 

you were found

 

the sun died

light covered in the tar

of illness

the sun died

the sweat of your blood

caught the light 

 

in the dark scab of its

obsidian deep  

 

the sweat of your blood

shined like slick tar 

in the forest of your hair

 

the sun died

in the scabbing black

in the dying coals

in the grave wax

of your body

in the grave wax

of your skin

 

thick wax of death

grew black as graphite

in the jet mold of skin