Shavasana, the working dead 

rush past trepanned out cold lung; 

flames spit drizzle stacked  cereal scrub 

sink radio holes feet distinct scree hazard 

remain flayed interstitial lunate blade.

 Aureate opening 

closing colossal in 

growth 

Mouthing sounds

 fretful dumb diminished 

     stately home orchard able only

                                  simplest symbols corrosive

                                   Wax metal edge digest

Sugar alchemical wealth cough drop

Planate precious repetitions 

Metal filament distil lineage.

 

And always thoughts return to that empty village square

 

Where are all the people in these places

 

You might see one scurry quickly from doorway to doorway

 

Even the houses look deserted

 

People are hiding

 

I want to take leave of my body; let it continue on without me for a while

 

Oh, I’ll be there if you need me, just write and I’ll attend

 

Let the old body do its thing. I’ll check in every month or so 

 

Taking into consideration the relations between brain and liver 

 

Feeling strength in getting further out; hacking through brambles, fantastic forests.

 

As if it was destiny to some day meet the point of a knife

 

Not this week but next week

 

Inescapable 

 

You will meet it

 

It IS your destiny

 

You do not have control here; the future is out of our hands.

 

Knife spinning back through an already happened future

 

Your body rushing to meet it

 

Your body sleeping in a doorway

 

Your body riddled with ten types of cancer

 

Consuming itself in a fireball of morphine and exploding cells

 

But take heart in this poetry; it is only poetry

 

That can stave off destiny.