by Scherezade Siobhan

De Sade’s Leeches – II

my dear, there is no art – to how a horse breaks – all thresholds are contrived to corrupt –
make what you will of thunder – under the flashlight, we are all – a provocation of insects –
spry economies, stubborn facts – decimals changing places – between wriggle & release
once rifled, combed, aborted  – the body is a museum for curating  – the threadbare
indignities of biology – the annais i carnage – the plinth i mock, because – we are sitting
ducks for a seismic jailbreak – my name splits the difference – between a sin and a crime –
diamonds on a leather strap – my name kinks your neck – a collar of fur – all kinesis, all
nausea –  trauma makes a dactylogram of my arms – a pupil of forensics – tutelary  fucks –
proof so evident, it is invisible – therefore,  i unmarry my psychosis – between the person &
the pill –  i brush the gun – guzzle the barrel – hazard the trapdoor – charcoal blackmails my
skin –  my desire is oil on canvas – fervent with a polished musculature – i conceal its
etiology, slip out the seedling – from under the stone, a hand – because the children here
have turned – to stone – the stone has turned to god – god has turned – thats all – god has
turned – to where there are no exits – just the dead grin – of a bedouin horse – stilllife & all
that

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