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

god

damn 

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