This pen, this allegorical
stainless steel surgical
sabre saw labors less
these days.

I've been sliced and diced,
disconnected wires spliced,
their copper contradictions
exposed, green corrosion
tumors brought into light.

The light is anxious today,
producing home movies
in junction boxes, pictures
flutter on loose canvass.

I breathe, digress in the damp
dreary pace of the grayest April,
drowning the past tense
in goddamn murderous
shallow bath frenzies.

This pen, this raucous demon
rests, so why, with these spaghetti
innards tossed before you,
why do I not slumber right?

Sometimes, there is nothing left

to do

but bleed.