Normally I have an aversion to poetry and would never subject anyone to it, but for some reason I had an uncontrollable urge.
In Front and Behind Me
I saw myself today,
Transposed, transported, transgressed upon and trampled.
Lying in my own sick I smoke and smile,
The projection of past life playing and lifting before me.
A cuckold, mute and blankly staring at my simulacrum.
The echo of repetition, repetition, repetition;
Sweet smells, sweet saliva, sweet O’Keefe flowers masking a humorous rot.
Frigid and turgid,
Ice nine spread through her veins;
Dead like roadside Bambis’,
Lone life in maggots glutting in a sea of pea green.
Enter neon orange electric doors,
Get yourself a ball of twine.
Find the mast and over, under, over, under, over, under,
Squeeze ‘til wrists pulsate and hands limpen.
Stirrups may buckle and your mast may wooden,
But better that than to blanche,
A seashell fossil in a crag,
Wet with saline and sanguinary stains.
