He learned his aim with an erection
And was wilted over a ghostly pool
Spewed on the linoleum, cradled in the interstices,
A need to be told what to do.
It was that a searing pain was felt
It was that it stung between raw folds
It was that, drowned in the wan light,
Having tested razor on lurid wrists
The autodidact wilted; flushed from
From nape to tufted cleavage, dragged
Himself gasping along the tiles, trembling
In a corrugated prison, he cried out
In the drone, no end to the litter:
Pools of blood and dead skin cells.
Nothing learned, only remembered.
A wad of man lies in the interval.
