Tuesday, July 17, 2007


In the Stigmatist’s Bedroom

In the issue of blood, I am already ready

To misread this garment of light.

She is wearing the look of a woman in a painting

Wearing a look of a woman in a painting in a room

In which only ten minutes ago the last drops

Of blood were cleaned from the floor, from the beckoning

Dark leather of the couch, from the frame of this frame

Within a frame.

Then, breaking the oil around

Her lips, she finally muttered a long low negative.

This woman of a bright room in a painting of a bright room

In the newly minted room. The cleaning woman gone

Also but the smell of ammonia, ornament of defeat.

This woman is bleeding herself into the room from

Her painting. She will be the lady of broken glass

When the story gets out. It will be the fight for

Ascendancy, for the wounds of the room, if the wounds

Of the woman in the room are opened,

& they are, this will require some stitching, for though

The blood flows into the mop heads & into the gleaming

Sewers, & into the mocking jowls of cleanup,

It will eventually become static, with enough air

& light. There will be millennia of clean up

Because the room is bright and the light of the room

Is in the room and of the room and the blood is the blood

Of being to, of being in the room and being the room

& it will come on, & continue to issue.


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