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 —

I’m

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.

READ:

    a) catheter,

    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,

Not

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

with

a dead cat on your head    all I care.)

It’s

the stainless steel table with trough,

gash of granite marker,

     and then

    nothing — grey ash swirl.