I carved her face with an artist's knife
But artist's don't carry knives!, exclaimed the writer
Well I do but I'm not an artist; yet.
O permit me digressions
Or not.
I loved her face
Even more than her sex!
Astonished and flummoxed
I checked my tools
Things were fine
I pictured her breasts,
But I remembered her face
This delighted me.
With her
I only wanted her face
What a lovely one it was
It was?
It is.
I still have the face carved
And pasted on my damp ceiling
Damp with sweat and chemicals
Why, of course, to preserve it!
So I carved her face
And buried her body
So I carved her face
As it was
And mine it was!
I now wear her face
And move among crowds.
Lucky bastard they call me.
And how I'm glad!
To forever have that face.
