Homunculus 1

White ribs gleam like soft pearls and hands the size of roast doves 
Rattle the lock of his skeleton cage. 
The bone-curves are wet.
His enormous head and outrageous feet glisten and glam
in a numinous, tissued night. 

Dangling balls curve away. 
They are heavy and impolite.
They drag over every spongy crevice. 
He hates them. 
Very much.

He was drowning in massy darkness.
He was well and truly alone, terrible in his solitude.
He scored his breasts and turned to pare the flesh 
From his head, snick, snick.

And by the way . . . he is not,
Not Not Not. He is not a Homo
Not a Homosapien.
He is Homunculus.
Proud.
Bold. 
Strange.

The thump-bumpity-bump heart stops. 
He pokes and pokes and pokes. 
It stutters and fires badly.

Trembling fingers undo 
The Catch, 
The Lock, 
The Ward.
The Latch of Invisible Things 
He once thought Invincible.
Kachunk goes the Crank.
He Cracks the Cage.
Light and Air. 
There is
Air.
And light.

Breast of Bone shatters
Among dross and grossly maligned things.
He is crazy to get out of there.

The rib cage goes eeeeek as it splits
And he dives through blackblood causeways,
Aiming for the mouth.
Her teeth crackle and snap with festive abandon.
And past the calcium fences he goes.
He is in a world of burning light
And tossed sunward.
Big bag of balls and all. 

Flames burn off one's Enormous Head.
Plantainian Feet.
And Dingle Dangle Spheres. 
He is a hot vent of ill wind
Looking for good eats.

The body on the couch is that
Of a Girly-girl.
Formerly a Goldy-locks with wolfy things in her breast.
And she’s looking pretty bad.
His cage of bone;
That one that arched whitely around the other redded, thumping, beast,
(That (almost) ceaseless organ grinder of tuneless tunes)
Well . . . 
Horrors!
It played all night and night to no good end.
He shattered all that girly-girl’s notions
Of pretty pearled white teeth and busted-into heart.

When he eased from the cage
And dropped the lock;
And fled through toothy bars . . .
When he did all that,
He was sucked out and up . . .
Out past the pink mouth,
Up beyond the embittered laugh,
Out the lips that creaked.
And up the sun as
It sucked his juices.

He fled and like Icarus, melted; 
Burned to a grimy snit. 
He won’t do that again. 
Instead,
He will invade and invert processes, recently dead.
He will tune up the thumpty-bump
To a most pleasing new beat.

Homunculus aims his drippity arms and dropletted tongue 
To the left key hole of the nose
And he slides his way down into
The slotted glottis. 
Mr. Gigantous Head no more,
He is Transformed!
The sun ate him but left a spark
That is not trapped in a candy bone cage, 
Hi ho!
He roams new currents of flesh 
Where a juiceberry wishes to be plucked.

He shucked her heart like a bad suit, and ah, my . . . 
The Silence.

Now he is charming and needs no introduction.
He knows this messy girly-clump inside and out. 
He can make her 
Or break her
Or turn her inside out.
What fun.

He floats like a Pike under bubbles of blood
And rebuilds her with leaky parts 
Or different parts.
Well, his parts in particular. 

She will be a-bloody brilliant! 
(But there will be no more thumpity-bumping in the house.) 
It drove him crazy, that blood punting thing.
He turns it into an installation
For the critics to disembowel.

The girl on the couch is dead but she will not know it for a while. 
He will not tell her. 
It will be a nice surprise
For when she gets her teeth fixed.