French Toast Frankenstein

In Poetry on April 9, 2012 at 5:47 pm

It could be a coincidence
A distinctive body odor
Like towels of browned lean beef
High gluten
Steps heard from the landing
A colourless mass in a dark suit
Shiny shoes
A deep breath slides craning
From the bloodless and mute
Of death fumbling hands
With a shocked denial
That none of DNA
Could have such a distinct body
The size a large (or perhaps an extra large)
The skin reminded of viscid dead fibers found on… nothing.
Closest approximation:
Like the sweetish blacktop of maple syrup bottled in a dumpster

“Its perfect”,
Said the doctor
In a days-old bloody garment.


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