Date: 2006-11-07 00:22 Subject: emetic Security: Public Tags: poetry

I lie smothered in needles.
They are a leafless forest, roots in my skin.
Breathe in deep: they have
That singular wood smell of pine;
That quickening of pace of porcupines’ darts,
Whose quills, once you are punctured,
Begin to work their way in.
I have not been so lucky that these have struck my heart.
They are only in my legs,
My arms,
The turf of my outer skin,
The lips of my mouth.
Yes, they are sewn shut.
And in my throat, the great gaping void.
They have stuck there, pins and needles,
Have dove into my gums; cheeks bulge like overstaffed pincushions.

I nearly exit the mind
To grasp at the tender swell of infection in the belly,
The protrusion of poison. Calm;
I am calm.
I do not stir;
Do not quake.
They have not yet thought to reach my brain.
No—
But I have now drunk the devil’s broth.
They need no more inspiration.
Up come the needles, up, up—
I need not fear the pain.
After all they cannot come in here.
After all it cannot pierce the brain—