Temple Of Flesh

Have you ever held

the papercut edge of a shaving blade

against the epidermis of your skin —

a flimsy thin slice of stainless alloy,

smelling of metal

like it had sensed the fahrenheit rising

beneath the thick sandwich

of flesh, sweat, skin and hair,

and gone through with it?

You’ll be surprised

how quickly it cuts through,

and how deep.

And that’s when you realise

meat is just about meat;

naked pink

sprayed in hues of crimson,

man or chicken.

The first few seconds,

the flesh stares back at you,

almost as if caught by surprise.

And then the blood arrives.

First,

a few droplets of red sweat.

And then follows the crimson monsoon.

And suddenly,

it’s far more

than you expected;

like someone

had punctured

the heart of a cloud.

Minutes in,

it all begins to look

and smell like a fish market.

Because spilled blood

is never only blood.

It is blood and sweat

on unswept floors,

fast losing colour,

fast losing shape,

and yet somehow

still smelling of itself all along.

And that’s the first time

you truly understand:

blood is embarrassingly democratic.

Man or fish,

it never learns the difference.

Once you've held a blade

against your own skin

and gone all the way through,

enough times,

the body stops feeling singular.

You begin to forget

the parts of you 

you'd intended to keep intact. 

For meat is just meat

when there is no one left

to disagree.