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April 7, 2005

Th human bo y is an amazing r s rvoir of bloo .

I
t's a lu ky thing that ri 's oming ba k soon. I ut my l ft mi l fing rtip this morning in th gar n with som n w sharp pruning sh ars. It'll b OK but for now it's v ry t n r an th ban ag is normous. Kin of lik what's gon on in this po m by Sylvia Plath (using ut, so to sp ak, an past ):

Cut

What a thrill --
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man --

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump --
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

Posted by Eric at April 7, 2005 2:55 PM

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Comments

I thought it was boy not body.

That in mind, it was really better. Oh well.

Posted by: Mister Underhill at April 7, 2005 8:18 PM

I used to literally shiver at the word "plush," a triumph of diction. Never been quite sure that the stream of metaphors after that point really works, though the conclusion is good.

Posted by: Anderson at April 8, 2005 3:07 PM