My Sick Eyes

For the man I must routinely pronounce my "father". I hope he reads this someday. We both deserve that much.

A monsoon of cliff top voices

Hanging with dread over the

Elite glamour that the 

Principal laws and gratifications to

Mend the impediments of our dirty foul,

Our dead, yellow stink

By a mile, a whale's yard, 

Of cotton, a one last fantastic hope,

Razored into the oblivion You.

Think of all you could have said.

Let them have you, dead for dead.

It's not me, you know. It's you. Your fault. Yours. You.

(I confess to being born.)

"It's not me!"

(Why does it have to be me?)

"I'm not being funny, but-"

(I'm not laughing.)

"Look-"

(Let me on.)

Stamp me out,

The last golden leathered stitch,

The last of the cattle, fat, dead and ripe.

That would be a right old stench on you,

Gaped like a yawning tattoo.

And, I am your fool, like you,

I am a Fool.

I could give you one nuance,

And maybe make you weep, 

Keep you awake, revile your sleep.

You would be wrong, and I would be Dead,

Coveted in God's blanketed head.

Everything He wants eradicated

Dictated onto the stamp you 

Ripped into me, out of me, through me -- 

Hitler Of The House;

And with a violent passion, I admit wholly in Death:

I have been killed not once,

As the mortal allowance.

The first time by the Shepard,

Who tried to smuggle me into myself,

Drown me out in the raging Others.

The second times you came for me,

The mad axe murderer

Haunted down the sickle doom in my submission,

Carried through the air-vents,

A bloodless hoard of languid distaste,

And shot it down my ear

Like a morning missile, shooting fragments.

I ride the grotesque wave,

Waiting for you to wipe me out.

The sweat and soil push into me

A kind of nuclear rape,

Ground into me like almonds. 

I walk the miles with teeth tight and wound

The spindle spun in Youth and the Harmless.

You weave it through me until I am segmented,

A forgery for the country's very Lost.