Self-impresario, scary, O!, lips of ruby,
Flush with loving the cornflowers on the back forty
(Puckered and provincial), I'm full of ardour
For my one true Love on Earth as it lurches
Away from Heaven. Our Father who art
Antagonistic to mine art, I fecundate the valleys
With volleys, with antipodal wellsprings of guano.
I was in a church the other day fondling a basket
Of pansies overhanging the pulpit under the nave;
In the narthex I was oversexed, and thought the hymns
Were streaming out of chapbooks intoning hidden
Eerie chromatics of my personal Revelations.
Hymn number seventeen-seventeen was particularly
Disturbing, even unto me. Cold shivers,
My absent audience, pass through my diaphanous brain
On a one-way furlough to Eurydice’s halo cleaner.
Should we elope, my Love, in a guffaw of graffiti?
Throw pineapple rings 'round our naked protruding parts?
Quote geographical Wikipedia cut-outs to impress?
Sheathe our unsapid grout-beset haunches,
Setting them in wine casks for visiting Burma cats to lick?
Anniversaries of doom, grotesqueries abounding,
I look in my one remaining good mirror
And crack up as it cracks up when, exposed, my crack
Cracks the front cover of "Lugubrious Poets Monthly".
Now I'm on crack, and my crack-brained drivel
Needs a crack shot to ease my pain, floating
High in the tenacious weeds of my history. (Medic!)
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