You are nothing but a clatter of bones in a tartan dressing gown
coughing up phlegm over the breakfast table.
You are nothing but a slithering of liver, lungs, kidneys, brain,
faithless heart pumping white crimson around and around.
You are nothing but a hundred billion neurons firing arrow
thoughts about yourself into a mist of grey.
You stab the butter knife in the marmalade.
I imagine stabbing it in your eye, watching your ego bleed out.
Then you look up and start describing a strange dream
you had last night about building a house from Plasticene.
As you turn your face and smile, morning sunbeams
blaze just below the curve of your cheek
bone, the place I like to kiss before we go to sleep
that tastes, so scrumptiously of tangerine.