Inside my body is a garden.
a piercing wound is closed by
Vines curling around the chasm
Pulling the two folds of skin ever closer.
And as it heals
A red rose blossoms, like a pink scar, otherwise.

This garden breathes
Its gills are a dewy’d, petal’d wonderland
Veins stretch like roots
Tendrils that ever entwine my flesh-soil
And bones like coal
Fossilize.
Into the depths of the earth they
Lay and wait.
The dark that keeps the cogs turning.

But what the eye cannot see,
it cannot truly hold beauty.
No beauty such as the blossoms
Sprouting from my wounds.

scabbed scab upon a
scabby scab.
scratch the scratchy
scabby scab with
scaly fingers and
shaky scrapy screams.

continuously tripping
over lightly treading
toes in the black
night of a torn
sky where the
heavens tweak
trialled tears to
trace your
muddied jaw line.

withered willow fingers
scratch at watery eyes.
wooden and hollowed and
weighed down by the
world’s cold will.
wronged by a witchy woman.

cracked tealight
candle fissures,
molten chasms in a
waxy cradle.

dip your fingers,
capped, hard,
cooled pumice-wax.
peel your new
finger-mould,
digit capsule.

The warm, fleshy cavity above your ***-chasm,
A crown jewelled with ruby shards.
Natural worm sauna with tunnels that slide through your body -
Feeling for a bed of penetrable goo.
The life-sanctum twitches and spreads itself among the welcomed visitors
And with heavy breaths heaving the walls,
And hands that push and pull with a
Warmth to make little sighs come to life
In a breathing, heaving ***-orchestra.

no no I am not here.
no sir, not one bit of me is here.
check the gutter,
or the dirt in the bottom of your pocket.
could be there.
could be anywhere really.
but sure as hell
I ain’t here.