Nothing but blood

My heart jiggles with Jell-O
in an uncareful kid’s grasp I was tore
but still never on the Discovery Channel.
Sighing ellipses, crying for hesitant criers
dissecting pixilated sludge emptying into living rooms.
Glamour and desire disco downtown
diagramming devotion’s chalk lines.
No pain ? nothing broken ? nothing left ?
shot and killed for MTV’s "Real World."
Skin ripping, revealing our atrophic pericardium:
Nothing but blood (flowing, oh so, ficklely fluid!)
Splashing on strobe lights stimulating our night,
spackling hearts and hotel floors
up and down, in and away: a locomotive.
Loca. Loco. Locos.