The Homunculus Speaks from the Bed of the Ovarian Dermoid Cyst
You can call me your little man if it helps you when you think
of me I don’t mind it. Few things I understand such as this
spherical mass which must be my head and I have attempted
an arm though my skeleton is only a crispy shell and I do not
know what it is reaching for there is nothing else here
but the moist bed I am curled upon. My tooth says
I might not look like much of a tooth but I was made
for chewing. My hair says brush me I am tangling
in the greasy spillage of the tissue I lie on
the tongue that speaks for me I ride it like a magic carpet
we are getting bigger and bigger I do not know where
we are going. I am trying to keep myself together. I am
not trying to be so ugly.
The Ball of Human Cells Speaks to the Double Helix
The Homunculus Speaks from the Bed of the Ovarian Dermoid Cyst
The Lambs Wool Strap Speaks from the Gurney, 1915
No Midwives Can Do What Angels Can