A corporeal mincing of, in this machine.
Each roughened crank turned
by milky owls,
their heads at right angles and eyeless.
A sure slow thing - boiled alive from frozen,
the body flung over in
more viscous than -
less terrific smelling, and closer to petrol
An actual machine -
nothing metaphorical about it,
to get strapped into,
black lead lid,
the sense of rust where there is none.
Howling out of it,
all organs in gang-bang implode to be exploding;
frequent fear of limb loss where dead skin leads the way;
fluoroantimonic acid on hand to sculpt the stubborner gristle baby smooth -
round of applause
to the living torso,
striking a match with its teeth, scorching
its lips off,
soothing everything better on... what - the wet of its tongue?
from the tears: tight gut, protruding bones and eye bags.
Compulsion for photographic proof of -
from flattering angles in spite of -
wank over the thought of what we//
wretched retraction forces itself
hot skin, line of the jaw,
what the hell – I held your face, looked into your eyes,
Do people do that in real life?
applied to the solar plexus.
To tighten the jaw, to fail to maintain physical integrity, being
violin strings between scissors,
smell of rubber,
the new Scorsese,
cheese wire (what it might and might not cut through),
Screw Driver, the brutalist assault to slash this map: north to south,
north-east to south-west and south-east to north-west.
some other land.