I digress, illumination is most found in the gutter
I see it glisten when I stare down into the clogged sink drain; something there
down among the strands of frizzy hair and rust
and spit, is more true to man than all this fanfare
about purity and light and god,
all good things come from dirt
which houses rot, we’re born in blood
and sinewy strands of snot, we come out
toothless and hairless and wrinkled
Sphinxes speaking in tongues
and we go absent in a similar fashion
leaving behind beer bottles at the darkest depths of the ocean
You wash the floors until they sparkle and think
to yourself, isn’t this kind of a lie?
If I stare long enough at the threadbare patterns
of this old rug, I will see Manson
his head, his face, the shapes,
the cadence of his convincing
If I stare long enough
at the ceiling, the plaster will turn to marble
to vines to honeybees and cherubs with molotovs
both smacking their bodies against the window like moths
There’s something there, in the obsessive conscious
stare at the ground at the radiator at the corner
at the dust at the exoskeleton at the bones
at the drain at your acne in the mirror
pick and poke and prod, it’s a kind of perversion
and morbidity is more human than the catalog
or better yet, this desire for perfection
implies a kind of underlying
twisted need to hide
no self-respecting animal has any desire to be
anything but exactly what it is
And we walk around in this parade,
chanting no one’s here! No one’s home!
We run a tight ship around here
Our pipes never leak, we have all our teeth
We leave all our lights on, you’d never guess
Where these hands and mouth have been
No comments:
Post a Comment