thiasus

TAXIDERMIST

the taxidermist    touches me like a geisha,

    rippling my     pond-clear       skin,

needling in and shivering out like nicotine.

     shatter my puppet           with crystals

and antonyms and      a    matchbox.

all of this autopsied world

                    is a techno-lit cage,

lasers               hemming the cotton avatars

into small,      schizophrenic         daggers.

the blood on the telephone, in the sink,

                                and through the sheets

is a               cardiac imprint,

evidence of our         nervous ventures.

it glints like glass water between pebbles,

         and spills off the jetty

                    to mix       catatonically

like the           smoke        in my         skull.