From an anhedonic sire

To his son named desire

Oh, desire, that is what I’ll name
my only creation. How gifts bitter
in the hands of children and wishers
who walk in place as though idiotic.
Watch them take ten years and grow
on you like wine on cheese, as sour
as topped off with vinegar curdled
like scrolls in the stomach unread.
How much, they ask, for every object
yet known to man and how do I pay
for my pleasures—-and by whose soul?
I have tricked each pickled dead
who know no rainwater or showerhead
able to bear the stink they stole.
Who knows hunger knows satiation,
knows knowledge knows want
and they tread on it having none.
Of the gift killing their forearms
first, whence given them, then
creeping up like lice grown men
I will say of you: your cousin misery
has grown one head taller though I dote
on my only creation I made with winter
like the homesick sick of pleasure.


~ by Jeremy on January 17, 2011.

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