Malaise in the confessionary

I haven’t been excited about anything in years.
I mean that neurological kind of excitement,
the kind poets of the past and flappers wrote about,
the kind you feel as if you jerked a laboratory lever
linked to an electrode affixed to your limbic highway.
The heat that eroded Sappho’s cunt, that hallowed kind.
The certain excitement unstudied pilgrims fainted from
in the howling wilderness when Bitter Old Death
greeted them and taught them its language,
that kind, or the excitement mystics gorge upon
when they file into downtown two-step and litter
black tar balloons on the cross-cracked sidewalks,
that kind. Or the kind of full-body possession
boys feel when they first discover their libido
or hear the worldwide chatter of the beasts.
I suspect I have riddled my brain too long
and asked for more than my share of its pleasure,
as if it evicted me from my own teeming skull
only to scold me, “Pleasure is not your domain.”


~ by Jeremy on June 27, 2013.

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