Wednesday, 14 September 2011

In Pieces

[originally published in Ex Plus Ultra, this is the definitive version]

Dismembered, corpora disjecta, your
fragments bound in muslin
to be buried, unavailable,
in farflung colonial corners.

I start with your heart, interred
like a dark amber fist, clenched
at the crossroads, to hold
you, junctional, at the crux.

Your hands I find coffined
under the raven jaw of Paris’
finest grand piano, fingers
tightrope walking over the strings.

Your feet, a beach
in Bangor, flexing like
pale crabs in the sand,
begging for ice cream.

Your head, found bobbing down
the Nile, then misplaced via
water jugs filled with discs of lemon
and tossed over Victoria Falls.

Your limbs grew like trees
in decimated Amazonian jungle,
and your shoulders supported
a doorframe, broad, mahogany.

But when I pieced you together,
fractured by desire, the only piece
missing, I missed the most:
your shrivelled, lifeless phallus.

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