Poem of Two Cannibals

OF THEIR SHY PARENT

My friend the shade shivers saying thus:
Viennese psyches (estranged but plucked
from a selfsame rapture of goods corrupt)
do sweetly dream of Paris Pharisees (their
warheads suppose to populate lawns)
who repeat, who shriek the other psyches wrong.
The Viennese (those gasping ghosts haunted
wholly by every spore of Paris) paint pretty
of world-tainting, boy-maiming alphabets
raging (coffins that many little hands
make their darkest dinner of) wordlessly.
The Pharisees, in their tillage denuded,
crawl on their bellies ’til their atoms smear
onto paper, ripen in letters, in noise deluded.
Their dreams spoil every Earth (cleared
huge by deluge and grisly Mohammed
naked) for the razing comets, themselves included
of no ornaments save sod, or Hells (or jubilant God
whose face was five-hundred centuries long, I viewed).
Young psyche belches psyches long-lived (and odd
as hallucinating letters on pancaked pulp,
as painting pretty, so divinely, of the dead supine)
that cower with a shade to whom no sunshine preaches.

AND OF THEIR DISMAL ARCHITECTURES

Sigmund’s pcyche swarmed me.
It asked, What do you know
of Eden’s whores? Willfully
Sigmund’s pcyche warned me:
skate by the squatted gods over there.
Come ye quickly and collect clovers here.

Sigmund’s psyche hushed a bit,
whispered, The brain is feeble all…

Sartre’s pyche stared at walls
many miles distant; or were they instant?

Sartre’s psyche was laid of granite.
Serpents strode about it, footed.
Sartre’s pyche asked its psyche,
And then what catastrophe for me?
I sprang from it, in a neuron-robe—
nude underneath like every monkey—
and replied, Your birth was tragedy.

Sigmund’s pyche plugged my ears,
waxing, I am Aristotle’s fears…

Sigmund’s psyche plugged my ears,
howling, I am bloody Germany…

Sartre’s psyche swam like lice
about my coal-lit cheeks, shouting,
I am crowds of commentary.
Loathe to quit he bade me listen,
shouting, I am joy made early death.
I couched inclined, my head afire,
and stoked his hissing breath,
shouting, I am Sigmund’s funeral pyre…

UNDER THEIR BROTHERLY APPETITES, I HOWL

Have I, but a body, a reeking body’s pleasure?
No, no! No ornament save the sonnet,
and the firmamental comets have I, but a body.
None honest but the marksman’s hand:
none awake for the museums I’ll write,
but a body and another, slyly. Have I
gotten to it yet, the twenty year sprees of being?,

says the penitent (illegible as eyelid-insides
and dark as dung) but a body of which I hide
only a patchwork mirror that scarcely reflects
fidelity, so infidel is the penitent rest.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

OF THEIR SHY PARENT AND OF THEIR DISMAL ARCHITECTURES
UNDER THEIR BROTHERLY APPETITES, I HOWL

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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~ by Jeremy on December 1, 2012.

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