Friday, December 7, 2007

*Apoptosis Today, Odysseus!*

“A life in the postal system
is not a life worth living,”
said the man in the postal system.
The stars are many. Come
address them, then dress them
before they turn cold.
They should wear sewing machines
made from clothes mailed from China.
My lover's vagina is an envelope
and my penis has been mailed
back to my brain. It’s a new form
of cell suicide, just another way
to be mailed to the cross. One head
crawls into another, two and then one,
imprisoned inside a program
of sad returns post-marked
direct mail marketing,
fragmentation of the nucleus, sad clowns,
a warm feeling when she seals your flap.
I want to leave again.

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