Whose blood is this?





Pockmarked, picking at his skin

with slender hands,

themselves disfigured at the nail

by another nervous habit.

And yet another, the clenching

of his jaw, has thrown it

slightly askew, its protrusion

rather clear in profile.

Thirty-two bones stained

by black coffee and Red cigarettes.

One habit broken of the two, but

a craving for the latter ever present.

He's made the switch;

an eleventh aluminium phalange

passed back and forth

between hands.

Below the neck:

a heart; two lungs; et cetera;

and not much to speak of,


Flesh, blood, bone.

Organ, tissue, cell.

Illusion of a "self",

crafted temporarily

from a knotted thread

of memories and impulses,

which masquerade as thoughts

he had all on his own.