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Her lips blackened to chocolate, each eye
to coal, she's a set
of riddles, heroine too
sick for a better role. She poses
for Doctor
with Metal Organ
who
controls the door
to her room. In and out that door
he goes with the box with the metal eye,
a box that retains her, a recording organ.
I am set
in my ways, though he supposes
I
can change, get well. But he's too
attached to me, my two
disheveled halves a locked door.
Pictures of she: she reposes
torturous, a half-lidded eye
looking back, staring down that Cyclops organ
wielded
by the Doctor with Pet Monkey, pet set
on shoulder. I'm beset
by monkeys and men-- too
alike! The monkey grinds the organ.
Time for the dance to the door,
the flux and torque I
master.
The mind imposes
its will on the body. She poses
his proof, a set
of proofs, her dark eye
an answer to
his clinical ardor.
Wandering
body, her organ
of memory, female organ
living, breathing, secreted, poses
problems for the Doctor with Roman Nose. This door
is keyless. This bit has upset
the breachless order to
which
all must adhere. I
am set on it, this organ-
ized series of myself, my poses, too
perfect! He says. The
little door closes on the metal eye.
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