Dissipation

Pale blue butterflies slither away, from my legs to

the bed, edging astray in an incongruous sway;

off my knee with prickly hair that fence beneath

my ankles that unleash the weight of years six-seven-eight,

The Melt, of Dalivian time, off my arms where battle scars 

of sordid past stand upright to hold their feeble mast,

where loony fingers drudge to impede the Dali-vian death

of melting skin like clockwork orange

of dissolving veins blue and green, 

of crawling ants out of my iris 

in a ceremonial march with banners from ‘84

the crimson liquid corrugates between my thighs 

I crush my shoulder blades with vigor only to 

untether the forces that hasten to partake in 

the tableau of my defenseless dissipation.