A lasting lethargy

Or

The joy of lethargy

An acute sluggish rowboat
under these arms, these hanging muscles
perched from a thread, to my joint,
the hinge of a running binge
no stimulant can cure. Runs along,
was messed, is molested by the scouring
salt of the earth above a grave
I myself did not permit.
Yet here I am, ashes long overdue,
not in brass but an uncured wood.
Does it make me, as I disintegrate,
a fodder to the soil, or will it
throw me along to the water table
until farmers suck me up through their well
and die of the poison in my heart.
They’ll pass me through, I’ll hug their kidneys,
I’ll write on the tubes my name.
A pleasure I never did once on my stone,
would drink and smoke the sour neurons
that wriggle out my ear-hole.
And the cup behind my eye, as it liquefies,
that cup of bone holds a good soup
as the last of the yolk feeds me through
the critters that invaded my hovel.
My body a hovel too. Then ladies
lay above my stone, hanging their legs
off it, as if I could reach up
to pleasure for the first time
another human being soon to join me.
This plot will fall over, will too
turn to a coagulated soup, and through
this forever-lasting sedative I’ll
pick my body up, first the skull and bile,
then the back, the genital, and pass it along
to my sisters the world over. They’ll eat it,
will throw it back into the group, and sit
beside me, cramped up and hunched as I
feel and fondle and neck the other dead
who, before the gasp, will smile, and sigh.

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~ by Jeremy on October 14, 2010.

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