Well Bled Dry

A Moral Vivisectionist's Ode to a Well Bled Dry

As I held my pen poised by my vein
I heard a voice within me cry:
"What means it if you write so loose,
or if you tighten your points?"
And even with the moon in sight
I woke - I smiled.

She passed away - beyond, now
All of us are free * we are together.
Images die, but not at the crack of a whip
Or in a voiceless decision:
You just quit smoking,
But you don't just quit needing the smoke.
You just quit hurting yourself,
But the beat fades to slow tempo;
You quit seeing somebody,
But you really don't know if they are dead;
You quit losing control:
But you know you have to find
Where you're losing ground
So you can clean the contact-surface
Like a good mechanic;
And you'll stare at it
And check: it must have follow
It must clean itself or be adjusted;
It must allow the current through. If beyond repair . . .
Switched-out, not cut back (never cut back)

Intact loving figure,
Alive - yet so limply draped
Across that empty porcelain chair:
So she bleeds and drains
Freely * unhampered --
Down the tubes
Into the cup,
Floats the mechanism:

we are living in a post-techNOLOGICAL society:
People don't die here,
Only images die --
My image of you dies
When I see the pallor on your cheeks
And the mort's art triumbprint
in beige facial powder on your collar.

My friend, my sister never,
I slew you freely, spilled you out;
You floated - as you bled;
And your life spills on my mind
Like your lungs-heart-ribs-skin-&-breast-milk
Spilled on the ground, pureed by molten pellets.
"Drink to me. I'll drink to you if you'll drink to me."
But never drink of this fruit, my love,
it does hurt so.

Lawrence M. Chamberlin 15 April 1975