remember when you ****** the marrow out of my bones
                    slurp and down in your belly
and how angry empty it was
and how you tried to fill them back up
                    with words like cottonballs
and how hollow they were and how hollow were my bones
and how our sounds had changed
                    from warm and slick slippery ******* when we parted
                    to dull clackety skeletons
                    accidentally bouncing off each other:
                    dry tock-tock-tocks and echoes
and now my marrow’s all grown back
and rosy is my colour again
and if i jump your bones now
                    maybe it will sound softer and squashier
                    maybe we can be moist again
                    maybe we can be apart but not lacking warmth
and maybe we can be parted but not lacking warmth

It is getting colder: deeply, deeply.
November carries a fog as thick as guilt
to set heavily on my brow like a crown.

I piece recollections in a daylight mosaic,
bits of broken glass with ragged edges,
but the colors are dark, the faces unfinished.

A row of bruises on my leg has cropped up
overnight like small brown mushrooms,
I feel the tissue deaden beneath my skin.

The fog comes at dawn like a merciful nurse
to remove me from my own history. It presses
cottonballs against my eyes. The bruises remain.

The bar-lights remain, smudgy windows grinning
out from under their shrouds, dark streets, they
too remain, waiting like a trap under deadleaves.

But did I break myself on him like a bottle last last?
The fog says YOU DID YES YOU DID
and reflects to me the shame of my own face.

My eyes are just mousetraps
Covered in sweat
Mouth full of cottonballs and teeth are cracked

A beautiful dame
A tres jolie femme

Stuck in the world,
My identity lysed
We go on living with organs in the sky

My guts stretched all around me like Saturn's rings

My jeans and shirt are stuffed full of straw
When I breathe, which way does it go?