Sacred

SACRED

There’s a hole in my stomach.
The opposite of a mass.
NEGATIVE
SPACE
With three
Cross-stitching
Of
Leather
Constantly tugging
And
Shifting.
It’s cold in there,
You see.
Where as for you,
I know it’s quite
Warm.
Because when I
Orally
Imbibe the
Chalky
Yellow
Ovals
That make my
Jaw
Lock and
Jitter,
I’m warm.
The stitches are
Removed and
Digested.
The hole filled.
THEN,
Sometime when I’m
ASLEEP
Or
AWAKE
Or ASPHYXIATING,
SOMEONE
Or
SOMETHING
Threads a
Rusty
Needle with
NEW
Leather,
Pulls
OPEN
The
Freshly
CLOSED
Wound and
Loops the
Needle
THROUGH
And
THROUGH.
Another
Quick
Fix
Is
Required.
Where
Oh
Where
Is
Ophelia?
Ooooh-
Phhheeeellli-
Ahhhh,
Are you there?
They made a sequel.
Didn’t you hear?
Nope.
Because of the
Water
Bloating your
Torso,
All of
Us
Are
DEAD
EMPTY
HOLES.
OPPOSITES OF MASS
OPPOSITION TO COMPLETITON.
OPHELIA-
REANIMATE!
I
Heard you said
You’d watch me
Paint,
Create
A
Masterpiece.
Oh,
Ophelia,
How many
More
Times
Will your
Precious
Name
Be used like a ripped condom
In a meth lab?
Infinitely?
OF COURSE!
For we all
Know
(Even the speed freaks)
Just
How
Special
IT
And
YOU
Are.
When Polonius
Said,
“THIS IS
THE
VERY ECSTACY OF LOVE,
WHOSE
VIOLENT
PROPERTY
FOREDOES ITSELF
AND
LEADS THE WILL TO
DESPERATRE
UNDERTAKINGS
AS OFT AS ANY
PASSIONS
UNDER
HEAVEN,”
He was
Right
Ophelia.
But,
GOD DAMMIT,
DOESN’T
THAT
SOUND
LIKE PURE LOVE?
I’D AGREE!
Only since
The cold
OPEN
Hole
In
My stomach
Fills with
Hell’s
Fire,
Moreso
Near you,
Ophelia,
Than near
Those
Rotten
Chalky
Ovals.