angels speak from my open wound where the light leaks out and the blossoms in my mouth cut my tongue the way needles bled my skin for art. the dregs in the teapot remind me of every twist behind the praise and so I down the lot, flicking my tongue to catch every gritty bit. heathens are better hydrated than their priests; but in spite of flags the ocean tides remain outside any jurisdiction and the moon has left me parched and salty. I’ve never known a filthier heiress. lo and behold! man is inadequate after all. in fever, my punctures point me to the nexus of bone and brick; so I prepare myself for the offing, play a chopin nocturne in anticipation. in the neon glow I downed a quasi-cocktail and thought myself a riot. spare me from whatever it is, I pray, strip me of my carbon then thatch me with stalks of wheat. when ulysses swallowed himself still he was the vision of a wayword seraph. if I use the xylem of the birch tree in place of gauze, perhaps this yellow flesh would grow scabs of moss, a pond, zooplankton and algae – the makings of a universe.