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i have only so much time for myself, nowTo Luke Buckham's previous piece     love's maniacTo Luke Buckham's next piece

a goodbye to most doors

at first upon waking up
from the American coma,
the light hurt my eyes & my body
so badly I thought I was giving birth.
then it became warm & comforting
despite the tension that comes with sitting close to a fire

like the tranquility in a spider's legs
when it realizes intuitively
              that it is dangerous
& remains momentarily still
fragile body built confidently around it's poison

I was walking through a supermarket
or drifting out of my body during sex
when an angelic arrow pierced through me
as quietly as a venereal disease

I was blowing a flattened trumpet
inside all the hollow trees
reinvigorating dead leaves
to rejoin branches suncracked & lifeless
& blossom impossibly in the dark

me, a man, giving birth?
the doctors weren't incredulous
but I could see their anger
through their sanitary masks

like a butterfly bursting
from a silver cocoon
hidden on the underside of a toilet's rim
floating away on a visible scented gust
of unflushed shit,
something iridescent & formless was born from me
against the glossy technobones of hospital off-white
never captured on any canvas
but staying in the colorless world's bedroom long enough
to prove that seeing its exotic colors isn't enough
to pull new alien vents
from the indigestive innards of the spectators

their skin becomes
burst pores that are labyrinth entrances
leading to rollercoaster nerves
a yawn halfway out of the mouth
turning to a witless scream of terror
as god digs in with his plastic silverware
gleaning the best part of you
from your ribcage left
on a stranger's impossibly large plate
the whiteness of which
insults the levitating rich redness
of your servant blood

when I died everyone I knew was in love.

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