Writhing in the walking sea


His soothing sac

Under the smell above the rocks
of snails grown wise in the talk
of their ache now relieved
a body of water crouches and steps
into the back of a boy who believes.
A brilliant wash on a brilliant canvas,
this hot skin, under the smell
the water erects its plasma well
into the back of his head,
and it knows its scent will have him fed,
the boy dreamer, chin and knee dark
in the dark room on a bunk of a bed
as a cluster of snails sleep in their shells,
those curled fused pairs of stones
much like the flesh hanging under the boy
between him pulsing drawn and coy,
at once full of meat then dry and beat
in his gastric burst of acid thirst
when he pets his stomach first
and then his nipples then his cursed
organ with an eye and a mouth
itself a larval urge to douse
with water and hand in the silent house
and he begs any to enter his body
or crouch under his chest and pray
and the moisture stands somehow grey
making writ in water it is to stay.
What of snails bright-eyed talking
to corners curved in a calcium hut
who witness man and are unwitnessed
except for this boy who watches
in the morning the film of snails
long through his house, his hermitic jail.
Only they know his wishes, may
grunt and cop and stay religious
with his organic valve, bivalve,
something of a relative in that he leaves
trails of fluid wherever he weeps.
What part of him weeps is unclean
and supple, yet supple, alone untouched
by any person he hasn’t made his lunch?
He is a painter of sorts, this boy
who drops his shorts and takes his tort
in hand, a prize from a nuded friend,
perhaps in a valley where water bends
over him wet with human sediment
and calms his neurons until they’re rent
and stripped from him and lines of nerve
lie all about this sexual serve,
and this boy wakes to a plasmic ghost
right over his groin where it hurts the most
at the bottom heart flushed with hormone
which beats his ears until he moans
and thrusts forth his hungry foam
much like the sea on his dreaming throne.


Yes, it’s about a wet dream. Rather than have him dream about fucking in a bathroom and all that cosmopolitan neotrash, I figured I may as well describe some sort of young schizophrenic whose sexual drive is quite strong yet quite confused. To dream of a body of water has several interpretations, one is sexual, most are about money or devastation, so naturally I chose to play on the body of water and it turns out the body is fit and vigorous. Sort of an internal incubus who takes care of the worst most needy urges this young schizoid can’t or won’t control. The snails, since I’m explaining shit, are obviously visual references to their trail of slime, juxtaposed against the boy’s trail of slime stuck and cracked over his legs and bedsheets. I am considering comparing the snail’s shell to a scrotum, something like a fused pair of pulsing granite. Whatever though, I don’t have readers, I can say whatever the fuck I want.


~ by Jeremy on July 15, 2010.

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