once I dreamt I was being worked over wide-eyed by
embalmers in a warm cavern/on a clinical table
these men/ibises/surgeons/jackals with gloved hands
bent over peering, hooking rods up my nose
the blessed excerebration of circular thought
no pain, just a sensation of absolute care
place each vital spiced organ meticulous into
my canopic chambers, each a cold storage capsule
you, never one to wonder where I get my blades
you, laying down my murder-instinct with such ease
my slit palms smear across countertop because what is
writing but bleeding. every toothy key, coppered wayfinder,
clatters wetly out of my veins and onto the marble wherein
our incorrupt relics are entombed. unpicking, not prising,
this yarned and forewarned girded gordian knot
it is true, supplicating cipher    I come flaxen pressed curvelike
succour-seeking each sequestered crevice
hidden even from the ministrations of wind
making each finger work their worth to the catacomb's surplus
a medusa masticating nothing but gnosticism
each muslin day a shroud,
a filtered immutability
awakes a thing that
devours indiscriminate. you,
my hunger choked into
unguarded splendour