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Tuesday, February 1, 2011


What do you think? 
This is something I wrote just three years ago, a time when I wasn't aware that writing long and tedious lines would result to coming up with sh*t that appeared to have been written by someone high on crack while sitting on a rusty nail. The original version of this poem sucked so much and felt so contrived that I had to restructure it. Concept-wise, I think the the idea here seemed very novel so not doing anything about it would be waste. I could only wish that you'd enjoy this.

A poem by Andrew Garcia Gahol

In my hand I hold a scalpel
Something I shall use to reclaim your love.
Drugged like an animal,
I carry your body and lay it on the operating table,
This sofa.
And gently place the tip of my knife over your chest
Specifically, over your left bosom.
Meticulously, its incisiveness begins to slice southward.
Leaving a trail of wet crimson on your skin.
Your foolish doctor then recalls something horridly vital.
The anesthesia, of course, to drown the pain.
Most surely it hurts but you did not even flinch.
Belatedly, I feed you the pain-killer.
Through your eyes.
So we could proceed.
And that you could be mine to break open.
My hands circumvent that line of red
And dexterously shape it to the assume the form of a massive, bloody excavation.
A chiaroscuro of vessels and flesh embraces me.
Black blood pulsates through razorwire veins and muscles.
How shall my fingers make it through?
Ah, your parts may be solid but their construction is weak.
Loose enough for my digits to dismantle.
I pull them out one by one to make way
So my extremeties could traverse.
A black hole now occupies your ventral body .
Now gaze upon your beautiful heart beating listlessly.
Fastened only by your ribs.
I scoop the mass of blood-pumping muscle and bring it to the light.
So icy yet fluid so warm.
I hold them close to my ears and listen with ecstasy.
Like a dadaist's work, it all made sense
As it conveyed no dub-dub-dub's or beating human sounds of any sort.
Just tick-tock-tick's.
I think of wristwatches and time bombs.
This symphony tells me that you are nobody's heart but mine once more.

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