Friday, June 3, 2011

the unctuous worm

she could be counterfeit

there are times I am aware of the sad barbiturate in my soul
an anchor that swings its shadow on the sea
threatening to drag me down beneath the waves of hands
that would clap upon my entry
and hurt me with their touch
for the words that my body can't excrete
not from any orifice
not from any pour
and I pour and I pour
and squeeze my jelly from my thumb
these are the days of envy
these are the days of absolutes
and in those absolutes are evil
and I am evil
in these days of crime and slaughter
lust and the heart of a father
burning like dynamite
set to blow
and take the holy mother
and the baby 
out the window into the sticks
where nobody but the family dog
can poke his lipstick penis
and feel that warm smooth breeze

and I am relentless
I refuse to stop my bones from creaking
they are leaking and creaking
and my oil is drying up
and my skin begins to rust like heaven's shelter
and I am full of holes
and these holes have names
with lips and tongues that speak separately
without my consent
with alternative brains
that know my own and ignore it
that treat it like shit
so the slit of my cock whistles mary had a little lamb
and my asshole belches rudely
so my ears refuse to listen
but they jabber on about the rosebuds 
and the seaweed
they are in rebellion
they have no home but here

now the chrysalis of my womb
which is not in this refugee body
but sitting playfully in my lap
wobbles and wibbles and gnaws upon my fingers
hungry for something to fill it up
and make it swell up big
like a good womb should
like the organs of old could bulge out
and sweat the sweet venom of history
I am like the white snake
an alien on this earth
coming to you in this formless worm
to mate with this red cherry
and destroy you
from my temple in the sand

S. Sparling

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