I build you out of argument.

Dissension makes you live

the undead life between my pages

rather than the worlds you wrote.

I do not want what Mary Shelley made:

hard bone, electric light, the shock of pubic hair.

Just talk to me.

I'd eat your inconsistencies

and read the songs of my entrails.

Your genius frisson goads me.

What will I find in your dead book

to criticize my size and shape

as I reanminate what history

has trunked instead of gloried?