My bones are shattered porcelains
And Dr Frankenstein is recreating
My body from the toes up

I have more screws than tarsals
More plates than fibulas
More scars than cracked paint on derelict homes

Greens, yellows, blues, blacks and purple
Dye my leg in splendid hues
Plaster decorates my toes and pokes under my knees

Pins and needles tingle constantly
But these are made of steel as well as
Peripheral neuropathy

My hospital discharge form
Reads like poetry
Displaced tibea

Goes on adventure and brings back
Swollen instead of souvenirs
And crushed ligaments as testament

To broken steps they have fallen on
Perhaps it is not as profound as sunsets or romance
But I am finding beauty in pain

Intricacies in injury
And the limits of my creativity
To distract from nightmares

Of how this happened
And to drown out the hungry goblins
Deep in my guts demanding opiates

Like drunken teenagers
They loot my stash and trash my viscera
Legal or not I'm still a ******

Writing poetry rather than sleeping-
Confronting demons with stanzas.
Over screams I am armed with the arsenals

Of metaphor, personification and symbolism
Whatever the pain, my posse of poetry and prose
Has always got my back

I saw old friend Bogart awhile ago
in pieces and fragments
of old, preserved bones
I’ve tried to put him back together
by assembling him, and I did
but there’s so many pieces missing.
His skull is gone, his hyoid and clavicle
his humerus and ulna on the right side of his arms
and even his phalanges.
He has no coccyx on his pelvis and
on his right leg, no tibia and fibula,
on his knee, there’s no patella
yet there’s some pieces of tarsals on his feet.
Incomplete and useless,eh?
Though old, he’s still beautiful,
a perfect masterpiece of the Heavens,
the strength of his bones measure eons
and will you believe me if I say
that because of him, my mom graduated?
He’s been responsible for the success
of students who became doctors and biologists
as old as his bones are,
were the knowledge imparted to the children
of many generations.
Bogart is amazing, a (non)living teacher
that tells me, that there’s beauty
and essence  in fragments of something that
once was complete and that one who
will always remain alive in the lives of many
and now, in mine too.

Tile floors.
Blood in the creases.
Plywood boards.
Arterial releases
I nail you to the ground,
This soul in you.
Phantom ghost of specter.
I will never leave you.
I will eat what you ****,
And be your skin.
Parasitic symbiote of prosthetics,
Entangled by bailing wire to every bone,
Our union refines combine tarsals.
I am you like the liquor,
Like Jesus' nails.
We rob stores,
Skip stones,
In the alley.
Mirror eyes mark your stretch marks.
Deep scratches of size.
Your iris is mine.
Becoming you is my charge.
In your innards I gorge.
Metastasize.
I want to feast on your skin.
Eat your flesh till your thin.
In the raw.
Exploit all your ****.
I want to haunt your house and lick your thighs when you sleep.
Press through your skin.
Bend it out with my lips.
This last invasion will curse you for life.
I'm a cancer forever.

Hiding in your basement.

In this cave I'm at home, I am dead to the bone,
my marrows unbloody and my skulls just a tome.

I sink i sink i sink and i sink.
In this muck I dissolve my speech.
Needing no one to breach,
my lair where I grieve. I don't want to leave.
In refuse, I breed.
I broke my own tarsals and I bust out my teeth,
so words cant seep, from a mouth with broken feet.
Tiptoeing to tympanums.

Entrails prolapse from orifices. Pressure delegates my new motions.
I now must hold my own esophagus in my palms.
I now must clutch my stomach from my navel.
I now have to hold all of me in, because no one else will/
can.
No longer under control of anything,
pressure grinds my teeth to nothing.
My organs are liquid metal molten bleeding Ebola,
every pore agony of the lurching of cells,
all at once committing secession ,
against the parts they connect too.

This is proof there is no god.
This is the cave of a sink of hate.
This is soul atrophy.
A trophy of losing your hope when rock bottom was the chasms final means of escape.

Lucifer leaps from my mouth to the sky.
To reign anew.
To destroy the sun,
and show a new light from the rest of the punches in the blanket of the universe,
that,
that blasted sky lamp has always threatened us away from.

we can see peace now.
We can finally be rid of that overbearing street post,
and see that it aimed to destroy us.

We sleep in the cave now.
You and I.
Agony together.

Tread carefully as you go
down the path before you.
Feel your feet roll over moss,
as your tarsals adhere to sap.

Let the breeze seep into your pores,
and sweep away the daily struggles.
Watch the leaves boogy in the sunlight,
and join them in the festivities.

Accept your surroundings
Accept the awareness.

Release your inhibitions...
Synchronize your freedom...
with the tree bark...
melting...
away...

Love & let go.

obdurate, ******,
he fastened twine
tied to tarsals
around my
ventricles,
closed off
the vena cava

i am blue
in the breastbone

empty blood
can't reach
the lungs

but
i am equipped
with the tools
to deal with this

animal instinct
to fight off
infection
or to let it in
and cradle
me every
night at
2
when you
wake to
make sure
you haven't
missed

the tug at your toes
or
the platelets & plasma
or
a warm wavelength --
a chance to record a dream
you lost in rising

From the cranium
to the metatarsals.
I dare you to be careful.
Or drown me in ******.

He went from the femur
upwards my symphysis *****.
Looking beyond the cutis.
Or does he wish to view the pure.

Slightly touching with the phalanges
pressure building from the carpal.
Hiding the face under a parcel.
Or is the phase under changes.

Cramps in the tarsals
going up to the tibia.
For him it's a game of trivia.
Or is he fighting marshals.

He bites down into the clavicle
pain and pleasure going to the scapula.
He breaths vernacular.
He and I are flammable.

Bones to break.
What a piece of cake.

so let's suppose you find yourself alone on a Saturday
night, a hermit inclined to hedonism - and you're sipping
whiskey and smoking cigarettes and start to feel winter
pinching your skin, so you put on another piece of clothing,
and you're also reading a book in an uncomfortable position,
sitting on your leg on a windowsill, crushing your tarsals -
    and because of the discomfort you get to reread half of
                 jung's the undiscovered self
(subsequent quotes extracted from the book,
  page references not given, and alterations made,
            indicated by being listed with a hyphen prefix)...
    and you have read it become...
but then you get a prompt from the book, and you have
to walk to another room where there's a computer
and internet access, problem is you need one hand to open
and close a door, and open and close another another,
and Braille read the walls of the corridor (because
it's dark), and the other hand requires you to carry
a glass of whiskey and bonsai iceberg rattlers...
  but you need the book too?
       good dog, shame there's no leash... the take in reference?
you stick your tongue between the two pages
that prompted you, and snap it shut with
your jaw... i've done a lot of things with my mouth...
for example ate a jasmine out to arouse it and then
penetrated it while kissing the mouth that spoke
       opera in onomatopoeia shrapnel while
the bed rocked... oh you got to reference *** into
everything these days... we live in an over-sexualised society
that doesn't really get jiggy-with-it anyway...
               i don't know it thinking about it
might insinuate it, or instigated a transition
from fiction into fact... but **** it...
  it's fertile ground...
                      and as the Koranic promise
suggests... 72 virgins, an infinite supply of ******
and your ***** chopped off...
              because *******, said an 8 year old
masturbator: is dissociative with the production
and subsequent discharge of *****...
    the purely muscular reaction.
        and who would need ***** in the realm
of the eternal?                so who the hell
would need *****?             steering toward golf
and the bowling alley... sport: it had to have
genital origins... all of them...
   like watching rugby today: i was imagining
the dynamic of the tsunami of ***** honing in
on the finish line of their tadpole adventure.
      and some do suggest that twins and triplets
are paradoxical births...
    i intend to mean that lightly.
           - weltanschauung of science...
- there was once the iron curtain,
                       now we have the niqab...
   i would have gone as far to say a lunacy with
the 24/7 transport system of new york,
    and when you pass from a big city into what remains
a rural community: it's lights out at 8p.m. and waking
up with a cockerel's skreech,
      - the west has unfortunately not yet awakened to
the fact that our appeal to idealism and reason and other
desirable virtues, delivered with so much enthusiasm,
is mere sound and fury...
    (or as Jesus said: the twelve to become the sons
   of thunder... real quote... never the bright spark
to be honest... unless he was referring to an aeroplane...
to hear the sound much later than seeing the plane...
so you get the pointers of what sound and fury can
create after the Macaresh haggle)...
- and where the church is notoriously weak, as in
  Protestantism
          (i'm guessing primarily due to the spirit of
schism embedded in it, and no other christian
denomination)
        for was it really about a "communal experience"?
  as is a belief in such a futility and the rampant
gang culture of mexico city... a community right there,
out to steal your rockers.
- stone of beds, an average of 145 grams per pebble..
     on this basis, telling someone to find a pebble
    that weighs 145 grams to the nearest decimal point
     of 0.1 - he would find no pebble of such a weight...
       'the statistical method shows the facts in the light of
the ideal average but does not give us a picture of
their empirical reality. while reflecting an indisputable aspect
of reality, it can falsify the actual truth in a most
misleading way. this particularly true of theories which
are based on statistics. what's distinctive about real facts
is their individuality. exceptions to the rule,
    as absolute reality suggests: the character of irregularity.'
the book: a brief history of time boasts of being a bestseller,
a bestseller that was rarely digested by readers...
  a Marquis once boasted of having an uncle that
owned a bishopric... and a fine fine library of books
you're read using only one hand...
                        guess what the other hand was doing?
     would i dare write a critique of what i just
referenced? i.e. jung's the undiscovered self?
it's a good enough book to be read while sitting on a
toilet for a bit longer... and even without pedantic
chronology of page 1 through to page 79...
          i just wanted to cite this quote the echoes today...
   western anxiety:
            it is useless to pillory the socialist dictatorships
as utopian and to condemn their economic principles as
unreasonable, because, in the first place, the criticising
West has only itself to talk to, its arguments being heard
only on this side of the iron curtain, and, in the second
place, any economic principles you like can be put
into practise so long as you are prepared to accept
the sacrifices they entail.
       i guess just as much, even without the historical
context...               modern capitalism has encouraged
a military styled empowerment of the police...
              and provided a weak military focus when
encountering alien hostility...
     and it has created the 0-hours contracts...
                   not even workers who are unpaid
but paid on a whimsical basis...
                                           and i guess Islam was like:
well... this model isn't going to work for us...
    let's create the most sustainable economic insurgency:
          war!                in some quantum-alter-universe
this seems to be working...
                                you can't really say that war
isn't the most effective and sustainable economic insurgency...
             but i love the fact that a new term has
emerged... counter to civil war... proxy wars...
                        and when Ukraine was joint host
      with Poland for the European championships
do you think the debate on expanding the European
union to encompass the Ukraine wasn't on the cards?
              one was already a member state for
8 years... and the other was sorta treated worse than
Turkey in terms of asking for membership...
    then Monsieur Pútān stepped in after proxy-stresses
were implemented from investors and political
operators of shadow projects...    thus said...
the West was still spotted talking to-itself in a lunatic
asylum of New York... where insomnia is rampant:
just like Mr. Piggy-Bank predicted mid-20th century.
and yet: i have so many more fractions of that
bottle of whiskey to drink... i might write
something less worded and less infused by world affairs.