Slice my skin and peel the layers back,
Tabula razor, bleached onion.
Poor and white as melting snow,
The shavings slip off smoothly.
Ah, the air stings my insides.
Plasma, run true. Strike your mark
With delicious drops of goodness,
Pollock, Quentin, Jean-Luc.
Il n\'est pas de sang, il est rouge.
To bleed or not to bleed, that is digestion.
Blood, blood, wet my feet.
Spread your paint across my sheet
So I can finally fall asleep.