One must decreate the creature within, Simone Weil said, somewhere 
Perhaps that’s like watching ants dismantle a tarantula, one leg at a time
Weil was a mystic who dismantled herself when she was thirty-four
she ‘famished her body while the balance of her mind was disturbed’. 
My mind was bent while waiting for a check and clean at the dentist 
the receptionist had perfect teeth, grey surgery scrubs and a Cyprus holiday tan
a sign in the lobby advertised eternal youth by antiwrinkle injections 
the dentist’s name was Ramses, so I asked if the sarcophagus was extra
the blue fluoride wash did nothing for my anaemia; I spat blood into porcelain 
Weil said suffering was midway between finite self and infinite love
her ascetic visage hovered above me in the glare of the surgery lamp
She advised I attend to the pain and my jaw replied without a sound 
I wanted to stomp the tarantula of truth without decreating myself
It’s time I said that everything I say, and I do mean everything, is a lie.