The Pourer

There is an oozing gash on my chamber-filled piece of pulsating flesh
That pumping time piece that pushes liquid back and fresh.

The open-ended wound causing all sorts of being to being back-lash
That metaphorical salt being poured on at rates of more than a dash.

To cushion the sting, I seek for a nude plastic piece of tape colored in blame
But as soon as the horse drawn liquid takes hold, I rip it off and fan the flame.

"Pourer, pourer, you're such a pourer!", I shout at the Id
As I drape myself in Morton and walk about without a lid.

The incision eroding ever so slightly with each crashing string of letters
Soon enough it will be so deep, they'll be no sign of it getting better.

One 24 of 365, I'll teach myself to use the clamps and then stitch
To keep the me bolted in tight, out of the way of reaching the itch.

For when the phalanges finally inch-worm their way to the gaping hole
They'll find a red carrier, strangle it and then reach for the soul.

Therefore, the me must be banished, exiled of the will
So the divide between parts can re-bond and finally heal.