this the brothel had: an orchard
the brothel had an orchard,
the tarnished dusk saw the tarts
agape upon my casket.
i was rotting inside, I know;
the casket swathed in murky dusk,
on stilts of a sort,
in the middle of a clearing
in the brothel’s ordinary orchard;
on stilts of a sort, as a wart,
a tough bristly wart,
with me, the body, a nauseating
lump dumped inside.
the irreverent bitches
razzed the irksome squirt,
buck naked, no shoes.
“–even in his last box
his wanting last stands;
here he glibly struts, stationary
though, with his humble straw
erect, bridging the domains, linking
the realms of death and life.”
“–we must burn this, sisters,
a bonfire should be afoot, is already on the cards;
then the ashes and the mishmash
shall help the orchard’s chances.”
nobody meanwhile had seen the appearance
as a conundrum of any sort.
the worthless bastard,
erst so tight with his purse,
desiring now perhaps to be honored
by his “family,” the last rites performed
by the priestesses, the attentions of whom
he had profusely craved
every other crummy day of the week;
dying to sink his crooked little straw
into the sacred fountains of another cunt,
squeezing out a wad
that never amounted to spit,
then quelling his thirst at the current fountain,
sinking his nose in the asshole of the whore,
warming his hands at the lambent stove,
clinging to his scant wealth
as a sick skunk to his stink clung,
a theft of which would have betrayed
his weakness, and imperiled
his chances of ever again drinking
at the priestesses’ sacred fountains
of tomorrow and who knows how many
now he is dead,
waiting for the fire.
bleak wart on the orchard, ignite!
throw up your flames!
withdrawn no longer in the rotting shell
of your disgusting flesh!
throats smothered by the smoke...
are they suppressing a sob, a growl...?
have some whores felt left in the lurch...?
i doubt it, though it is a fact that
i hear some of them singing encomia to the bastard;
they don’t any longer nurse the old aggravations;
looks like all has been condoned,
paid with the corpse;
they are now as the vestals in communion
grieving and mourning for the fallen
inchoate project of a hero.
their lengthy shadows –
wild dancing maenads of an olden bacchanal –
their shadows thrown all twisted up on the walls
that surround the orchard of the brothel
closed for once.
and i knew i shouldn’t be that exposed.
the world came crumbling down –
an overwhelming sound as of wolves
baying at my ears, and on my face
the unbearable breath of a
terrifyingly opened furnace.
had they stopped singing,
was the ceremony over...?
tell me: do i already
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
his wanting last stands
- ► 2008 (22)
- ▼ 2007 (35)
- ► 2006 (20)
- ► 2005 (39)