Desecrate my body of its echoes.
Core me to the first and see me
through to desire. Bare me of everything
built into me post-death. Undo me
to the foundations. Trace my lines
of manufacture. Whisper to me
instruction manual.
Spill gold and bronze colour into my chest.
Make of me an alloy.
Melt off around me like a candle
on antique furniture.

Draw forth the heart,
the marrow,
the yearning palm.

Empty my tongue from the inside;
call me in the forgotten name;
bury treasures inside my back;
teach my body to say heaven,
and we could be each other's fulcrum,

show the world what it means to push.
Become walking graffiti. Dare them
to find new ways to outlaw us.
Tread all the lines into non-existence,
become impressionist whirlwinds.

We could make each other dinner.

But you have learned to talk achromatically.
You have sold yourself to their Reason,
or maybe just bought into it wholesale.
You could be a brown professor. Keep applying
base before makeup. Make the masks
we wear into furniture. Hate your family.
You could even publish a book
on the whitest of pages.