The disection of Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas is a beautiful man, even lying here dead on the oakwood of my desk. Dead for fifty years, and still beautiful. Pale milky skin and tight brown curls. I don't really want to cut him open, but Juan says I have to. Juan is Chilean and apparently predisposed toward this sort of thing. Disecting Dylan Thomas proved tricky. My tools are dull and not really designed for this. They are more for cooking salmon and making birdhouses and what not. Understand? But here I am slicing up a great poet and the blood is absolutely everywhere. I mean Jesus! And I'm digging around in all these metaphors and stanzas and lungs and organs and it's one in the morning Juan and I've got poetry all over my self and it turns out Dylan Thomas isn't so beautiful from the inside. This is not the way to understand poetry Juan. You may have the Ph.D. but I've got the insides of Dylan Thomas all over my hands and what's left of Pablo Neruda in the freezer and I'm not playing your sick game anymore. I'm going to wash up and go look at the stars.