That word, that word we throw around, Love,
Like doctors in the mortuary throw
Body parts around, hacking and dissecting,
When it is everything to our self-worth:
So vital is lost blood, lost meat.
Cosmetics of a curated variety seek to cover up
The channels of our alterity, those scars
Beyond deadly, tattooing the end, marking us
Disgust in polite company, but delight in romance,
The other, nothing more than a canvas for our work—
Love truly is a work of art, a work of artifice
With all the resistance of a blank canvas,
Much and yet so little—
I take this hand, upon it, twist the ring
Twist the *****, press the vices inward
Hoping to find sublimity
In a distant body, water on a far off planet—
In this ceremony, I crown myself
Dr. Frankenstein, with this body
I assume control
Until it, by its confused existence, begins
To awaken and rebel—
Every ides of every fantasy
And every little bit of every dead idea
Is sown together on this day of communion
By the old guard against
A background of bells and cooing doves.
Once viable flesh, supple and flush
Has lost its elasticity, running pale
Makes for proper cloth
On those inward lonely nights.
I ask, Are you not happy?
Are you not happy for me?
But, it is clear on the faces
Of mortified loved ones
That an aspect woven and frozen
By a dutiful hand’s dubious intent
The stitching is all wrong, far too apparent
What life it takes on, ready to destroy me
Cursing its life, a hideous, untouchable
Monster.