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I
If you want to know
the sex of lagoons, jump
jump into their wombs
You will suffer
The swollen silence of rebirth
Never ask me why
Never ask
why the mad poet of beer parlours
goes on the rampage
He drags his deities into gutters
to launder them in faeces
swaggers in purulence, chest -beater
at upturned chairs and tables
He’s at war with himself, running
for cover in a brood of his own demons
Neither love nor charity can save him
from the night that takes his mind
when frothing malady spirits him
to the vomitorium. He pukes
upon his own totems, to curry grace
at the shrine of his own self-dissolution.
His mind’s misadventures regress
to quotations trading of metaphors
Ill-grasped in a mist, self-insufficient
wishing for Orphic lyres he has gift for
but lacks the spine to hold. He rises,
friend-like, to trip those who savage evil.
Not in love of evil. He lacks spunk
for the drudgery of evil demands
He lusts to be part of a happening
before he knows the score. O he dances
with the wolves till, landing in frying saucer,
he’s sweet morsel in the Devil’s Dinner
The poem is part of the collection: I will ask questions with stones if they take my voice
