transdermal by derek lessard

sheet of solubility; sheet of sheerest misery. smashed to bits with hypodermic purposes in mind. transparency of tissue. was benign. seethrough glass, satisfied. disappearances into oblivion eluvia; returnal womb.
subdermal soars. climbs to higher heights. newborn novelties in amniotic baths. underwater swims. eyes upturned, looking through an augured hole to epidermal godlight. island peaceful. eye this miry storm of me, berg divisions. follow of trailbroken bloodpaths through snow. melting point becomes a puddle. erasures like watermarks. comfort in all that is thermal. warm. sweetness of a voice’s answer through a current of caloric calm.
a snowman’s desperate tries solidify, liquidize to quick, clutching cold remainders, infernal grasp in grip.
body
temperature,
unnavigable.
analog to language
chasing its own tale,
never telling hot from cold.
icecap to icecap,
bipolarized.
the arctics,
the antarctics
of a thermostat.
syringe in midmuster of its blood.
trust’s invest in oncoming cone
of headlight flooding tunnel
during time
of scheduled track maintenance.
a seat awaits you
in a train station terminal.
compass rose invades
a sheath of human camouflage,
needle prow set low
no matter where
its motion goes.
somehow,
always found
again inside
this house,
freezing
wreath
of frozen
sweatdrops,
following
spotwelder’s bead
to mesh tornadic sex
with algid water,
sneaking up
the cylinder,
solution dyed
in graduated
crawls
up
fractions,
toward
identity
with
self-
an
identity
of
one.
sexual congress
of blood with water.
alkaloid comminglers
on the sneak,
spiderlike-
up the microcosmic tunnel,
microcosmos
of me,
squeezed in the vicegrip
of one quarter
of a cubic centimeter.
fractional space.
matter of division
into brittle parts.
mattress admits me,
accepts this
fall into,
drunk with mania,
cupped quiet by
a clammy fear
of jawbone chatters.
I,
sole
survivor
in a family
led by
its sharpest point,
strike of veins
instead of nerves.
the
devour
of
delicacy
after
delicacy.
This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.
The sun shines through
the ice summations
on the picture window,
starts a fire slowly
on the hardwood floor,
reflects the glowing,
twilit red of sunset
over the Canadian border.
This poor livingroom,
once so fresh and clean
when mom was here to keep it.
Now, all’s taken on
a dingy,
funereal aspect.
Dust layers accumulate,
minutes staring down
the oven clock,
counting minutes
as if how many cigarettes
are left,
counting down
the minutes
of this dying death.
how many
will be wasted
in its wake,
in what
is left?
disillusory nothingness
of none.
disillusory nothingness
of no one.
not even
the invisible type
of emptiness,
not even the kind
you can inhale.
sometimes,
I think
they’re still
sleeping
in their bedrooms.
I go into
the fridge
to find
the slicemark,
the suture cut
down the middle
of the ham slab-
find that reliable,
dependable cut,
always there
for me.
I always use it
so they can’t tell
I’m still eating
them,
eating
their meat
in secret
freeloads;
parental
discretion.
I then continue
living what I call
this
highlife
on the hog.
I,
the
glutton,
live
among.
all
that’s
left
is
what’s
already.
I’ve eaten it all.
I’ve eaten everything.
a stomach’s growl sound,
reminder
of the this is life
or this is death knell.
when a fridge
is layed
on its back,
facing up,
down on the floor,
you see
how well
it would fit
a body-
just can’t believe
I’ve nerve enough
to continue usage
of the surname
I’ve shamed
with such free will.
how long
can you live
on innocence,
inherited?
my entire life,
only one arm:
one for receipt,
a phantom limb,
an offering-
given.
cheated
out of half
the proverb’s metaphor;
from
birth,
severed-
never gave a thing
to this family,
never put in,
only took
anything,
everything
I could.
I was supposed
to have two arms-
one for receiving,
another for giving.
removal.
repast.
just give a glance
to the bank accounts.
recent transactions:
transgressions
masquerading
transcendence.
took, took, and took
all of what was
transient,
temporary,
temporal
march
to
the
rhythm
of
its
ticks.
landfilled
gifts,
abused.
no presence.
only
bygone
hadbeens,
foregone
futures
never
will
be,
blood-obsessed temple
of the hands
of this sutured
body clock,
right hand stolen
from the God
who created
me,
a
lefthanded
clock-
in
your
image,
half
of
your
immanence-
black
hole
vacuums
up
this
temple’s
plenum
of
embodiment.
how long is the night?
a question
that can state.
how long can I live
off bestowments, laurels
of parents long since dead.
how long must I live,
left lonely
in this ghostfilled house,
rebuilt in form
that leaves
God
out,
unwelcomed
by this wicked house,
where measured desperations
embrace a shadow
of my dad
or my mom
or my brother-
disappear amidst my arms,
mist clouds that were never,
leave me standing there
with nothingness
I
well
deserve.
those
hungry
ghosts,
full
of
empty
bloat.
anything
you can have,
everything
you can have-
can never have
what you want.
sunset
Minnesota
crashes in
to mock me
with divinities
long ago abandoned
for a practice
that condemns me,
Godless-
with
nothing
of
the
rationed
food
I tried to time just right
while it was still there,
in the fridge-
can no longer open,
find in it
an
almost
boundless
stash-
eat a meal. collapse. fullness and wholeness and everything that is good and wonderful in all this world and think about the warmth of eating what my mother left me and hear her voice hear an answer to the prayers met by the torturous silence with which God damns me and now even all the leftovers are gone and I’m left with nothing but what’s partially invisible disappears so fast before my restless wakeful eyes and how long is the night halved by a tomorrow already coming approach of 12:00 is it lunchtime is it noon no matter how much I eat I can never feel full hell it could be midnight for all I know and why did I have to live the longest and why will I among them all die last.