Tuesday, April 10, 2012

From This Fat Dungeon I Could Rise to Skin and Human Title, Putting Pig Within

So, Ozzie Guillen and Fidel Castro. I've decided against the chronicling via blooger gadget the day-by-day shitstorms because hearing each day's new cover of the same song doesn't make that anthem suck any less or any more. I won't get fooled again, which is worse since I will unreservedly and unexaminedly still love my sucky anthems as much as I loathe others over and over again day after day. Since I need write this publicly to purge it from my head: I need insult me to get past insulting you for sins we share, sin a lead word. I'm plumbed. That sentence was extinct as I wrote it, fresh as a b/w photo post-colorization.


Thom Gunn

Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?

Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
Or cringing dribbling dog, man’s servile friend,

Or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
Tortures it hours, then does not care to eat:

Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me.

These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.

Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked. I am gross—grey, gross, flap-eared.

The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear. I am the snouted creature

That bites through anything, root, wire, or can.
If I was not afraid I’d eat a man.

Oh a man’s flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk. Buried in swine.

I root and root, you think that it is greed,
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.

Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:

Cool flesh of magic in each leaf and shoot,
From milky flower to the black forked root.

From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.

I push my big grey wet snout through the green,
Dreaming the flower I have never seen.

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