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Fables of First Flesh

by Max Bouillet

"I’m gonna get free, ride into the sun."
--The Vines

Fluttering eyelashes
form wakes in the fog;
wet memories of first flesh
coalesce as each
ripple received builds to
lust and we seek
the divinity in the epicenter.

(She drowns newborn gods
in pools of rose water; the corpses
form the basis of useless
philosophical paradigms
and dead languages.)

Her kisses scratch
the back of my throat.

(wind blown leaves
across blacktop)

(strips of flesh
dangling in butcher’s glass)

(paper cuts from the words of god)

The list continues.

She wakes me with
radiance and an angel’s agenda.
Checkboxes on the road to eventual
salvation. Panes of glass
are slipped beneath my flesh
as I set myself up
to be shattered...
she whispers of licks and kisses
and sends me out the door
to be hit by a bus.

Blood, rainwater, and the
remains of the street
drip ocean side as my soul
slips through the depths.

I evaporate and become
wakes in the fog
from fluttering eyelashes.

I am my own memory of
first flesh.

I am the divinity in the epicenter.

I am the drowned newborn god.

I am the tear on my own cheek
that smells vaguely of rose water.

I am the recycled and

I dream of stars; the only place
I can hurl myself to escape
from perpetual re-use
and finally die.

11/28/2005

Author's Note: Trying to get back into the swing of things. ;)

Posted on 11/28/2005
Copyright © 2022 Max Bouillet

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 11/28/05 at 04:57 PM

There are many wonderful aspects to this piece, stark to sublime. The rose water reappearing in the tear is marvelous. Nice work. Thanks.

Posted by Laura Doom on 11/28/05 at 08:46 PM

Not to be reduced to the anagram 'angle', Mary abstractly came to mind...verse 2.0 swung me into the back of things, and a conclusion redolent with ominous projection (and rejection) - questioning ourselves, until decapitation allows heart & soul to recapture lost horizons...if you'll forgive my incontinence :)

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