Seventy-Eighth Entry

So horribly insanely ZONKED today.
Kseniya recently described me as going through my "gross period," so today's poem is something really pretty with her in mind.

Here's my poem:

BODIES TRANSMUTATED INTO GARBAGE

Fitful nights disturbed by rustling sacks
formerly made of skin, piled up in the street
neatly, bodies with green smudges, reading
the paper on the train has never been my thing.

I drink orange juice. A woman's bloody, jaundiced
arm stares back at me out my window.
There are pine needles sticking out of the skin.
I throw the thick pulpy concoction back
and see the outline of the woman's face,
hiding behind the stretchy skin of the bag.

I go outside and into the park, sticking
needles in my arm and punching myself
till bruises. Then I wrap myself in a bag
and wait all night, finally being transported
by truck to the pile of eviscerated torsos
with nothing to do. I am fascinated
by a particular human thorax, I believe
it used to be the one I love. I still love
her, and I collect her bowels and stuff
them back in herself and begin to dance
and she seems to say all the old things
to me, shredded crimson lips dangling
against my cheek.