Pincushion

I am no longer shocked by blood.
Scissors scratch what shouldn’t be touched.
(How much metal can I insert under my skin?)
I lack the surgeon’s skill of precision,
Each incision deeper, cruder and more chaotic.

I plunge my face into ice cold water.
I feel the bubbles massage my cheeks
(I still can’t open my eyes)
Out of breath, I release my head
And gasp the air like a hurricane.

I walk the streets at night, hoping for muggers
Or murderers or rapists to entertain me.
A dog ferociously barks, but I hear nothing.
I wish it would tear at my face
And rip my wretched expression clean off.

I’ve had more pricks than a pincushion
(and not in the way I would hope for)
There is no end to my reception for the sharp
Give me cheese wire, give me saws
I am a magpie, obsessed with the metallic.

They lick my skin like the absent lover should.
(I don’t miss the blood all that much)
I am a receptacle allowing everything in,
Room for one more, willing the collision.
One colour enters dull, another leaves quixotic.

My mind’s lambs are all running to the slaughter
Sliding down troughs with the promise of peaks
(They never open their eyes)
White-woollen will stained oxygen-red
The thrill of dancing with the insane.

I stalk the clubs at night, hoping for lovers
Or losers or psychos to enter in me.
I leave alone, dejected, and feel nothing.
I wish alcohol could brutally erase
And make my twisted memory fuck off.

I’ve had many fantasies of lover’s life gushing
(and not in the way I would hope for)
There is no end to my reception of the dark.
Give me sadism, give me flaws -
I am a black hole, dreaming of the phallic.