Neurosis in the gland
Increase me, for I am an insane man.
What the puritan won’t worship
nature will, whether in a tongue
or otherwise. Every man so delights
in plenty. The tune of medicine
is contempt for man. His archive
is anatomy, his chief pleasure misery.
Healthy militants (boys to the last)
manufacture agony ever acutely
how our bowing violent lovers do.
The handsome ones (fat ones
always that read, pardoning you)
prod the puritan until his head
rises from his thigh, until he
surrenders to chaos and old night.