Masterpiece

I want to lay the language open with a knife,
and make her bleed through a gore so deep.
(I could do that too, I could be cruel.)
So that I could drink the syrup of poetry
that runs through her veins, to my minds full.
She would lie motionless, (her face calm and serene)
like a frog, etherized on the dissection table.
(Would she endure the boundless pain?)
I shall not stop until I have licked
her syrupy blood to the very last drop.
I shall cut open every bone to see,
if the marrow encloses the secrets of prose.
I shall dissect her heart and brain,
to see if a bit of soul rests there.
If I find one, I would give it wings,
to fly to the aboard of happiness, the sky.
At the end, I shall be able to publish,
A pound of freshly peeled flesh, which smells-
of blood, cut neatly from her heart.
And that would be my masterpiece.

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