An ennui meets its sloth upright

First off, you there sitting
as always sitting in the atrophied crouch
you call stature, you there read
these directions well and mark them.
For they will mark you, I say,
though I am no one but a mouth,
so heard my ears the upper lip
or crushed my ankle pouting.
But a mouth. I am your king
and I scream and I scream
while my cortex dreams of dulling.
Learn to gag on a scalpel
itself the pond of drowners sheen,
its edge dull, there it is dull,
there it flies around the sphere
of your head the sun. Wakes you
doesn’t it? Doesn’t it burn you blue
and in your mania hump you too?
Who would think, you thought, who
would bend over his own knee
suspended by the scrap of his collar,
the pinched white neck of a kitten
whose face, like the desert,
molds and rallies dry then wetter
when it halts in its aches forever.
This the dulling stem of thought
through a morgue of grips
and you there, you special you,
in the game of trips on your face
unfeeling, you, unfeeling like embalmed
families staring at each the other.
Now with me you’ll be bare,
have neither a share of halves
nor a shaft of wonder nor be numb
in the foul tingle, paused there,
somehow looking past this one
sitting on your eyebrow, if it
is called sitting on the dangle of pits
which too like you swallows my feet
then your head the sun and the rest of me.

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~ by Jeremy on July 14, 2010.

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