I want to describe the Body as a Book
A Book as a Body.
And this Body and this Book
Will be the first Volume Of Thirteen Volumes.
The first bulk of the book is in the torso,
Seat of the lungs
That fan the wind that dries the ink.
Seat of the heart
That pumps the ink
That is always red
Before it is black.
The heart and two lungs are held upright,
Close, but not touching neighbours,
Sheltered by the covers of the ribcage,
Watermarked with dark twin punch-hole paper titles.
The breath of inspiration runs amongst them
Drawn down from the air by their shared influence.
Nape to Coccyx
No function of book or body is singular
If a multiple service can be performed.
So the inspirational air
Shares the same passageway
With salts, words,
Sentences, Sweeteners, Paragraphs.
They all come tumbling down to flutter
onto the ruminating page,
To lie in serried rows like rice-stalks
In afield, or stitches in a tatami,
Patiently awaiting irrigation
By water or by vision
Even if a reader does not appear for a thousand years.
The second bulk of the book is in the belly
Factory for the mixing of materials,
A taborato of sorting and threading,
Retaining and Remaindering,
A publishing house in continual flux,
Stamped with the indente chop of the navel,
Seldom idle, Never still,
Sharing space with preparations
For the future with the irony of economy.
Future and Past sharing the same thoroughfare.
Book and body always showing their evolutionary history.
Penis and Scrotum
I am the very necessary Coda
the ever reproducing
The last dangling paragraph
that is the reason
for the next book’s