Savant

Periscope extends the lens.
Concave and clean.
Peer through. Peer through to the side.
It asks nothing, yet regales with morbid fecundity.
Laugh. Would you like another body?
We have plenty more.
Light another smoke master.
The strobes have only focused yet.

Surreptitiously you lick those lips master?
Do not be afraid, mesays.
They are but forlorn remnants of a larger prey.
Vanquish. Dominate. Subjugate.
They are yours for the making.
Firm, but they can talk. They whisper
Your name if asked.
Don’t you fancy that master?

Feel it against your veins sire.
Velveteen rabbits come for way more. Yes.
And you will be venerated. Parched soul.
It shall help you revel under the pink moon
And orange stars.
Your fingers come clean, don’t they?
No one shall judge you.
The mind is the slave.

Cut a hole, yes, cut that hole.
Inhale that aroma.
Almost reminiscent of the package Mamma gathered
For that early spring morning
She called birthday.
Explore the gift sire.
Cut a hole. Yes.
Cut loose.

You are sweating master.
Which part races?
Against time and against grain?
Dig harder I pray. The cornucopia lies almost
Within reach. Move them.
Strap your head up sire.
Glance at those pale green eyes.
Do you feel them at the base of your spine?


Feel them under your skin?
Tormenting the mitochondrial detail
To hark out in agonizing pain.
Feel them over your palms?
The amber nectar oozing out of your grasp
You held so rigidly, slipping away.
Feel them around you neck sire?
Asphyxiating almost. Begging questions
That require subtle replies.
Feel them on the mirror master?
Stripped clean, as naked as the wind on these desolate shores.
As naked as you and I shall ever be.

Come again sire. Come to me.
I shall not judge.
Cut the hole again master,
Shall we?

The painting is an impression by Jordanian cubist and visual artist Muhanna Al-Dura