Six versions of green towel on rack, my head
flat to porcelain — hot flesh chilli thrust
up the wall.
A matter of interpretation: disjunctive prostheses
a) mid-thigh to foot,
b) fore-arm and hand,
c) brain in a jar,
d) information highway —
on it, wreckage scattered to the Arafura Sea,
cupboard door open.
I learn to type with one hand, lettered scarification,
body simulated, hold the pethedine — .15
at the wheel, optic distortion (Look, Ma! Six
of everything), I don’t need
leaping tigers through the window to convince,
I’m totally dependant.
b) bowel bag,
c) drip (drip, drip, drip),
Southwest winds through the walls, rack
and pinion physiotherapy — next week
I’ll take myself
to the toilet (drip, drip).
And it’s not so much
the visionary disruption, fraternal limbs,
melded epidermis grafts — no,
the Virgin Mary Mother act Wonder Woman
Barbie Stars-and-Stripes altar with flashing
heart and voodoo candles litany from down
the hall — nope. (You can do the hoochie-koochie
a dead cat on your head all I care.)
the stainless steel table with trough,
gash of granite marker,
nothing — grey ash swirl.
Two-for-One x Three
2 February 2001