Oh my gosh... This poem gave me the shivers but at the same time I was compelled to read more. Really awesome job!
glistening, skinned fruit – they lie on the dissecting trays
still and unmoving, like disciplined children. fluking tubes,
arteries stopped mid-squirm beneath the slicker of flesh, and
unreleased thumps held back like hiccups. i look outside at
the papery dead insects on the sill, cast-off pianissimos of shuck
and skeleton. they tremble in cobwebs, like prayers in a big church
and the hearts are red and amphibian in their cold, refrigerated
bloodlessness.
we push our thumbs all the way down the canals and thoroughfares
of the organ, until we meet an icy crunch, as they are not completely
unthawed. pale, squeamish faces, knuckles on the stainless steel tables.
you make a face as you hold the heart – lobed, pinched, pink, the warmed
flesh starts to smell a little, the smell of stale romance and
unwritten loveletters.
snipping scalpels, following the veins and tributaries, bloody
latex – we pass the heart around the table, strange and pillaged,
shedding itself, rotten blossom. slipping from our grip and
wriggling like some great escapist. its chambers red, plush,
curtained, secret and blooming and not yet discovered, like the
beds of adulterers. we learn about systole and diastole, and
we listen to the heart, as if it will remember its voice again and
sound out its bloody syllables.
I let you open it up, completely, so that the soft darkrooms of flesh
gape open like yawning cats. purkinje fibers parting nets, the weary
passages finally disclosed and the unfrozen blood dripping dark
and red – cooled passion on wax paper.
our slippery latex hands touch for a moment, the windows let in
the cold, instant winter light, and the heart slides sideways. I smile
at how pale you are and the hearts in the room let out all their pent-up
desires, dreams, worries, and fears, like stories finally told, like held breath
finally released.
Oh my gosh... This poem gave me the shivers but at the same time I was compelled to read more. Really awesome job!
Kylan, dahling!
Off we go. 
You know the drill by now. If there is something you cannot decipher from my handwriting, please tell me. 
The imagery in this poem is wonderful. The only thing that caught me up was the last of stanza two. I think the ending of the stanza would be more powerful if you ended it after "flesh starts to smell a little".
Hope this helps,
Cal.
The descriptions in this were absolutely, deliciously disgusting, and just your command of imagery was absolutely amazing. Truly, I most definitely was awed by this piece. The only things I have to offer as far as critiques go is that I'm not sure if the way you have your lines structurd is the best way in the world, but that's really choice, not mine 
And also that sometimes it seemed like, as absolutely amazing as the imagery was, sometimes it seemed as though it lacked direction, if that makes sense. But seriously, this was absolutely amazing, for sure
Kylan wrote:Smorg --
"You" shows up in a lot of my poems. And honestly, I don't know who "you" is. I could say it's some love interest or perhaps something to add another dimension to the poem. I like the latter better. "You" helps add emotion and she's apart of the subtler meaning of this poem. This brings me to the subject of the origin of the heart. This poem was based on an experience I had dissecting pig hearts, but I purposefully left out the qualification in order to allow that deeper, subtler meaning. It could be a human heart (which I prefer); it could be a pig/sheep heart. It's up to the reader.
As for the emotion, I'm not sure how I could enhance it, other than starting over completely. I'm glad you enjoyed it to some extent.
Thanks to everyone else for the kind words!
-Kylan
Kylan wrote:glistening, skinned fruit – they lie on the dissecting trays
still and unmoving,
like disciplined children. fluking tubes,
arteries stopped mid-squirm beneath the slicker of flesh, and
unreleased thumps held back like hiccups.
they tremble in cobwebs, like prayers in a big church
and the hearts are red and amphibian in their cold, refrigerated
bloodlessness.
we push our thumbs all the way down the canals and thoroughfares
of the organ, until we meet an icy crunch, as they are not completely
unthawed. pale, squeamish faces, knuckles on the stainless steel tables.
you make a face as you hold the heart – lobed, pinched, pink, the warmed
flesh starts to smell a little, the smell of stale romance and
unwritten loveletters.
snipping scalpels, following the veins and tributaries,
bloody
latex – we pass the heart around the table, strange and pillaged,
shedding itself, rotten blossom. slipping from our grip and
wriggling like some great escapist. its chambers red, plush,
curtained, secret and blooming and not yet discovered, like the
beds of adulterers. we learn about systole and diastole, and
we listen to the heart, as if it will remember its voice again and
sound out its bloody syllables.
I let you open it up, completely, so that the soft darkrooms of flesh
gape open like yawning cats. purkinje fibers parting nets, the weary
passages finally disclosed and the unfrozen blood dripping dark
and red – cooled passion on wax paper.
our slippery latex hands touch for a moment, the windows let in
the cold, instant winter light, and the heart slides sideways.
I smile
at how pale you are and the hearts in the room let out all their pent-up
desires, dreams, worries, and fears, like stories finally told, like held breath
finally released.
Smorg --
"You" shows up in a lot of my poems. And honestly, I don't know who "you" is. I could say it's some love interest or perhaps something to add another dimension to the poem. I like the latter better. "You" helps add emotion and she's apart of the subtler meaning of this poem. This brings me to the subject of the origin of the heart. This poem was based on an experience I had dissecting pig hearts, but I purposefully left out the qualification in order to allow that deeper, subtler meaning. It could be a human heart (which I prefer); it could be a pig/sheep heart. It's up to the reader.
As for the emotion, I'm not sure how I could enhance it, other than starting over completely. I'm glad you enjoyed it to some extent.
Thanks to everyone else for the kind words!
-Kylan
Hey Kylan. This was quite good. It had a cool, creepy feel to it. Your imagery was fantastic, and I could definitely feel like I was there. However, there were some places in the story that read more like prose then poetry, but other then that, it was great.
Keep Writing.
I could talk about how the writing is beautiful, but I think you know this already. Instead I'll ask a question;
No, Kamas.
It was 'Holy sweet mother jesus O.O."
Also, I refuse to review this.
Awesome job.
-JD
Kylan, now that I've read this. I'm just, 
Ask chat, first comment after I was done was 'Holy sweet mother jesus."
It was horribly graphic and beautiful, sends shivers up my spine.
I can't even review it. Absolutely marvelous. Really, where do you get this stuff?
*gold stars*
Kamas
wowza, that was quite a poem. and I mean that in a good way :) I thought it was beautifully disturbing, if you know what I mean: the language you used was lovely, the imagery vivid, the sound of the words pleasant when read aloud. but of course it's got a nasty organ being passed around a room, which gives me a bit of a creepy icky feeling. I like this bit even though its yucky:
Kylan wrote:arteries stopped mid-squirm beneath the slicker of flesh, and
unreleased thumps held back like hiccups
Kylan wrote:i look outside at
the papery dead insects on the sill, cast-off pianissimos of shuck
and skeleton. they tremble in cobwebs, like prayers in a big church
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