Liposuction


Word stitched to mouth-
an hourglass-shaped organ.
(because of metaphysical principles
nobody can bottom the anatomy of a phoenix)
Poetry has tried before to elope with an appendix
away from my womb.
My flesh falls out of an ascetic mouth
right into my other cannibal pole south.
As soon as I vertically utter myself
I prodigally coast back, not having found rest
on at least one numismatic shelf.
My macerated soul levitates towards
its former smarting pains.
My echoes moult a resurrecting silt.
The day I’ll finally die
something will explode me with a jilt.
The day I’ll finally be born
something will stopple me, midway inbuilt.