Autobiography with God Complex and Epidemic

I have always been a statue, my absenceof gestures just right, my eyes too clean,my knees oiled, all parts of me draped.

The corridors of me whisper with chains. I tryto make a language from the splendid voids of rain.I try to be nourished by what has been inedible.

Then I starve. I am shocked by the begging bowlspresent in my hands. I pass through ghostsof my own gone self. The little winds

that are its pulse. The little innards thatkeep it hot. The jolt of it is near enough.The art of it is tapered shut.

My image thins and cracks like the high notesof a choir. The most outward parts of mefix and flex. Neat sutures border this:

a kiss of whim, a stitch of thistle, a lickof phobias. A fidget of shivers winds its wayin. My mind is a lamplight for silence.

My heart fashioned of artificial ash, my heart a divan of shadows. That geography of palpitations,my heart: it houses thousands of embers.

What is shark-like. What is frayed. Its requiemslend luminosity. Bewitched interiors,pale and collective. A blue significance of trees.

I fast while others feast. My soul: its electricalquarries. I am sated by my brought mouths.I am quiet by their lakes. The eye in me

drowns. The brow in me bleeds. I can seemdim. I am at rest. As the ghosts that rule fleshdie in its bed, their syntax scaffolding the breath.