An inheritance: or mouthfuls of sons
The light starved and I berated a dead man.
I do not think you know the smell of dead men.
And I only intimately know the smell of dead old women.
They sank themselves in the murk of their land,
like their miseries were cornseeds. And they died.
I berated a dead man whose stink called him bona fide,
howling in the nose. You would only recognise
this smell if it abused you, sank you in its vise,
made your meals all sacrosanct for their rarity.
As the dark grew fat I pinched my nose, ate the mush,
and spat up the mush. I pinched my nose as it grew
like the dark, Gargantua made neuter, with us eunuchs
of the will who smelled dead old women, those few
whose rejoicings remind one of mouthfuls of sons.