June 2, 2012

poem 172 of a poem a day for 2012



missionary position

I am a human cake
a slake version
of eternal beta testing
what derivatives do I flavor
my rise with
am I here
for consumption only
do I go to the ass end
of the line first then
where all the bodies
farm souls to know
how much grind
goes into the millstone
how much flour
eggs and butter to add
to the caked urine
that I mistake
for rose colored glasses
and my nose

inside the ghost languages
of crawling antoinettes
in the dark
I hope not to forget
to seethe, simmer,
bubble and spit
between my meals
what I steal
what I reveal to myself
fingering every hole
that my humanity
slips away through

I order take-out
in order for disorder
to find what rubble
can be raised to root again
and can deliver past
any midnight calling
for the Dawn sooner
than it supposed to arrive
maybe every one
of my artistic expressions
or creative endeavors
is an expulsion of things
my soul has eaten
and on the most base level
perhaps I need open
commode experiences
to break down the barriers
of what I’ve contracted
in the viral locks I’m in
as I consume to no end
more blindness for my eyes
and as many big noses
my face stoops and bends
to pick up the trail
where I cannot escape
memories of more

my hands are always reaching
through the sulphur fields
because I smell my way home
through the undergrowth here
my spirit portal window sill
is a flowered distilled DMT
unlocking everything
I can stomach while fasting
with my open mouthing
of the rain and letting loose
my bowels at the same time

I throw the clocks against
the wall tell the tall tined lines
of endless mouths they have to wait
and finish their own feast
of breathlessness slowly here
each delectable taste found
is someone else’s Universe
waiting to be beaten, mixed,
poured and baked into cake
frosting is only for those
not willing to know the bones
being gnawed on here are theirs’ too
the soup parades scrape brooms here
finish rooms for what falls
from the table like rain
and another kind of stir begins
with each first chew
to slow swallow and fire
for glass in the sand
that still has teeth enough
to cut rivers and bleed you dry
stove top glows
hairless scar tissue gloves
and Love in every molded form
wades the slag for pieces
of my immutability and reason
not to care if anyone sees me
dancing my way to ash again

EJR ©

No comments:

Post a Comment