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
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