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Posted on 2004.04.25 at 05:36
Full of that legendary black bile, I breath the algae-latticed water of 4 am, and it slides and ellides over my communion-tongue, tasting of eel-livers and verdigris. My lap is full of shattered light blubs, their pearl-sharp dust settling on my hair like a net of knives. The gratuitous morning boils on my scribbling hands, choleric light, mewling blue and grey. The Madonna of Pre-Dawn Light, Our Lady of Excess Humours. Legs crossed, the corruptible lotus, and the cicadas, the cicadas are stirring at my toes. See this frozen pose? This dead-limbed yogic splendor, hobbled at ankle and knee. And the stigmatic torso, where the winds were driven through, and the body broken into four stone slabs--I cannot read what the sun wrote on my bones.

I am sitting outside my skin, the horizon throttling with its petroleum fingers every neck I have ever owned. It is a poor beginning, all dressed up in methane blue and grimacing in the gin-soaked light, that door I can see off beyond the left-hand highway, the door that leads away from those dark fingers and their endless reach.

At 4 am, there is only the body of air and darkness, collapsing into itself like a Russian doll--daughter into mother into daughter into mother--and the wet sky-palms press down like a debauched baptism, pushing my red-lacquered skull into the next.

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