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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


Submitted: March 23, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 23, 2018





The breathing of the brain

Juggled in the hands

Of the late night anatomy lesson,

Or is it early morning?

I can never tell.

I could smudge the ceiling

With fingerprints

To confuse the astronomers.

Yes, I could yell and scream

To the stars outside,

If  I had the authority

To tell

The door to open.

But I would not be heard

Above the laughter of the women

Scraping flesh from bones,

And the explanations

Of the medicine man

Fondling a frontal lobe.


The breathing of the night brain,

The dripping tap,

The creaking room,

The suspicious forms

Covered by white cloth,


Only what the demented,

Used to define as

" I."

The dissected heads are unaware,

Preserved in their medical cages

As masks for children.

Skin cut back from donated faces

To expose the machine,

A profile without a ghost

To be used as a mirror,

When the tribe

Wishes to observe,

Its dignity.

© Copyright 2019 tom mcmullen. All rights reserved.

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