Tags
damp gristle, euphoric heat, gore's soul, knife wisdom, left toe-cutting knife, poem, Poetry, slash season, sonnet
I want a darling not afraid of knives,
in love with the oil and the stone. Who knows
how to hone against bone. My flesh thrives
with pain, with slash seasons, with primrose
-hued welts. What do I need with a summer,
bastard dogwood galore? or an autumn
with lake storms pitching across the sour
waves? What we have is a fist, the wisdom
a fist brings holding a knife. I am yours
for the cleaving, for the euphoric heat
carved in. My skin is ornament enough,
and my will shall be done. Darling, let gore’s
soul guide you through all this gristle and meat
to my trifle of flesh, slash season’s stuff.
