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Hellish Shell MAG
Often when I take a nap,
I awake to find that I have
severed my left arm,
with my body weight,
cut off the blood to the arm
which does not write for me,
which does not cut my meat;
poetic carnivore, I
will survive.
Dangle the dead weight from the bed's edge
and let sluggish life slide,
sap-like into the crushed limb.
Often then I return to my doze
and awake to find that I have
sliced away my body, the body
which hangs, stiff like a strangled scarecrow,
which never fits the clothes bought for it;
yet I will
not survive without it.
I must lift a finger, an eyebrow,
against the entire Earth's gravity,
force lethargic life into a hellish shell
that refused me my peace-of-mind
and refused to wake when I did.
Always then I fear to fall asleep.
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