Specific Incision
A Poem
Just a knife poke, one of stainless varieties that carries its hint of rust with the pride of all things made in past days. Tetanus, go away. So then the razor becomes a little meme of its own, belligerent little fuck: it keeps on teasing the knife. Hurled into the shower at full force and I can’t shut it up.
If this isn’t working, I suppose we’ll keep at it. How long till desperation finally dries up, till you’ve found the figure worth holding, worth aiming a knife at to make those final cuts? Yes, you’ve got to screen things these days. You have to hump that up the hill before getting laid. A condom box gets heavy, puts on weight, destroys the weather.
Aided by this mousy moth, put inside the mouth for 32 chews, and thirty-two swallows. Your exchange won’t work here, won’t matter for the diseased. We try to keep things in perspective; I didn’t know about the cracked lens till now. We will replace it without a lens and see what opens up. You may advertise with us, if you let us in on what you’re selling in the first place.
Open lip. Sore cheek. Nose covered in its own bloody sculpture but that isn’t where the knife was going to poke. Now there’s nothing red we can see inside the cut. Just the pearled anxiety of a half-open oyster.
J.D. Harms 2020
