If You Touch Me, I Will Move

if you touch me, I will move.

I am not a rock of canine teeth or swirl.

it was the sanctuary of shade

that struck me dumb the third side of a coin.

I swallowed whole the second day he rose.

it was the third day when I chose

to spit my trowel and diet with the worms.

my second skin of flesh now sixtyfour

my jaw-bone soft and sulking like a book,

a paper-back. a multitude of whims.

 

if you touch me, I will bruise.

I am not an art of noise or rancid smell.

it was the salt i craved 

from a table-spoon of wine on a broken nerve.

I drank it dry and puked all scenes away.

it was the anti-social mouth I fed.

my twin of most unorthadox.

his schizo-effective polaroid

straight between the guise

a slice of lemon hanging from it's eyes.

 

if you kiss me, I will die.

I will kick my blood and lick my bandaid dry.

I have harboured pain four times a river deep.

my idle oils on camel skin.

it was the hands too heavy handed in a curse

when I murdered my distractions

with unaccompanied disguise

brushed my hair of still-born cells of white.

when the second-comming plucked me from the vine

and hacked my black viola out of spite.