whaleing

my disgust.

  

 

 

   I enlist,

   your tokenism as a

   mask for my acquired shame.

   The warming attar of

   your perfumed oils,

   lip-gloss red,

   in blue waters

   agreeing with the swell.

 

   again and yet again

   your stoma shoots it's

   station from a pool.

   Spermaceti  from the

   base of skull and face,

   to check their means of

   weaponry;

   to thrust the hand or

   mute into the bell.

 

   Is it stone-age this dwelling,

   killing when the stool

   dissolves so true? Or

   is the killing, with pleasure

   high,

   a trick that puts the head

   down as pustule opens

   for the barrel; stand

   puzzled by the glee.

 

   When everything is dead there is

   nothing left for chanting.No

   praiseworthy merits, left to

   honor.

   No mantels or great rooms

   for righteous acts

   to hoist the metaphors; mephitic

   semen;

   skived in slender layers

   for the purse.

 

   As a divine soul, who cannot even swim,

   who semelparous and for  long alone

   pondering as a hillside ponders stone;

 

   I fear tomorrows undistinguished herd

   accept what heresay sounds as barren bone.

Reviews

[Emily B]

these words were lonely, been hanging out in the cafe too long with no comment

and now I find that there is a purpose to my day, to come and read and ponder

and take something with me when I go