Cats are better worn inside out.
I mince my insides
into a bright red paste
to paint a portrait
in logical cubes
for you to assimilate
& decontruct.
I am shrödingers cat
caught in a cardboard box
with my inbuilt death
shaved onto the side of a kiwi
breathing your rejection
As you peel the skin off my back,
devouring fruit.
This is my apocalypse
(though I say it with a lisp)
I greet you as a pop up evangelist
ready to hear my sins
and help me to realise
I am your lamb
I am your lamb
I am your lamb
but you have no eyes
and can not see me
& I
no mouth
to press with urgency
strawberry gloss
upon your kiss
to whisper memories
& print our names
on ice cubes
to melt against your lips.
I
self
destruct
pointing a camera
at my quantum suicide
pulling myself to pieces
for one last look
for you to affirm
my existance
If I were an artist
I could open your eyes
with careful strokes
& paint colour
into your iris
throwing a rope to my voice
which drowns
beneath your pupils.
