PENKNIFE

from your old callused hand
to the last living strand
of hair that sprouts feebly
like black sunbaked seaweed

with earlobes enormous
and eyeballs a-milky
these wrinkles put dimples
all over your flesh crawling

in mongst the shadows
of large concrete buildings
and rooting the gutter
for edible matter which is

torn in your hands by
pain-quaking fingers
and prodded and poked
into toothless dark places

where bleeding black gums
weary of smiling
pound out the mixture
into acid bile

i pity the monster
that crawls from your lips
when your life is no longer
and your tongue is for eating

i pity the blackbird
to peck out your eyes
that eyelids unmoving
can't shield from the dangers

your soul will leave seeping
from welts past the bleeding
and...

i like how this poem ends with an and… as if there was so much more to say about the thing, as if someone woke me from an opium dream at that moment, as if i was cut down in cold blood as i was bent over the paper or computer, as if i got up and walked away, as if i didn’t know what else to say.