Desire

Can't I crave perfection just a little more? No longer drool at it from the side of the carcass of desire and greed but rather tear at its flesh; let sickening drops of ruby coloured liquid coat the ground in a sort of cleansing wash? Watch that liquid sink into the soil, and flowers burst from its life-giving touch; bloom hastily into the thick air, thick with the aroma of the carcass. It gets into everything, tendrils of it in the air, in the ground, inside me.
I breathe it in, that stolid air. Sink my
teeth into the soft, warm flesh, its heat a comfort to my skin. Pull my mouth away from its body, the rouge wine twisting into strings like honey. And then it is firmly in my mouth and I am firmly chewing and my teeth crush down on sweet and bitter tissue and drink in its moistness; that gorgeous, lavish liquid.
Sinuous limbs become reduced to
glimmering scarlet messes, bubbling with a passion. It welcomes my hands and I take it into me, know my blood craves this, this is the milk of my father. Inside, there are few gelatinous masses of innards. These boil down in the sun becoming a stew of titillating vermillions and royal purples and electrifying blues and quiet cobalts and powerful veridians. I take their beauty and put it into myself.
Soon, the carcass is clean. Shining white
bones remain, the skeleton a gleaming monument in the sunlight. I take the puzzle apart, carefully dismantling each section. And then I hold the split and pointed ends to my collar bone and sew them into myself. Into my wrists, into my ankles, into my neck. I let the skeleton become me, me become the skeleton. I grow myself wings of bone which reach into the sky from my back like a foetus escaping from a mother.