The Fatty Spoiled Flesh
The fatty spoiled flesh
The fleshy underlip…
The clenched and puckered
Ass of man
That allows a pawn
to slip…
Why does it come so easy
To turn and feed the draft?...
The fiends of ready excess
Play with my human pottery,
And in their dragging of the current…
In their plunging of the depths
They are fated with my very worst…
Something damning for your thirst…
Just leave me to my tapestries!…
The cold is coming in…
So soon the ice will come and go,
And we'll be welcoming this glow…
Better not to intervene,
And force the card when Imogene
Is back to blasting caps, and
Drawing figures in the air
With a finger that works quickly
Like a typist who's possessed…
She is wearing her black night shirt,
And she's not expecting guests…
Her breasts are puckered, and she's shifting
Under veil of ready cloud…
She's tenting at an all night market…
There are few who've stayed amongst the dying light of her restless flicker flame…
So she washes her face in a forgotten latrine,
And tries her best to thoughtlessly recover…
...Tomorrows another day which we all must quick discover.
Imogene, tell me when you'll roll out of your hovel,
and finally dare to be perceived!...
...I am dying for an introduction, and you haven't been received
By any company in ages...
...Are you aching for a man?...
The fatty spoiled flesh in stages
Dries upon your window-sill,
And they swear that it will turn within their time frames like bad milk,
But I see you smiling like the Buddha,
You're not buckled down with sweats...
It was all just how they drew your bath...
And though their lips go white,
And flaccid cocks shrivel to a dried out dough...
They can't write your epitaph my dear...
No, they will never hear the waves inside the shell just like you do,
So let us leave you be to close the hatch.
©
6/10/22
Bunny Villaire