How hard again the transit
Caretaker in a girls’ boarding school
I took care of the feminine bodies
With hand unnoticed.
I washed their dirty clothes
I cleaned their bedrooms and bathrooms
I counted every item of clothing – checked carefully
That the tags stuck – counted holes in the meshes
At the barriers on the boundaries explicitly surrounding
Our hallowed ground.
I appreciated them being always ‘round.
There were no dead
There were no strikers
No internecine becrippling of the sweet-smelling troops.
Gravely I used to fondle the mud
How well I remember now the mud
The soft malleable mud where their buttocks and their piss had lain
Evocatively dreaming of creation.
How well the tasty mud
Now that the ground is unyielding
Now that the dead and the strikers sinisterly come sidling to our side
Sick snarling brutes
With evil intentions of mayhem wreckage thorough extermination
Now that the pillows are nails
Now that the eager sores are never asleep
Now that the torment lingers
Now that the plague rules the roost
Now that famine is ubiquitous.
There’s no clean water
The mines are crumbling on our very heads
And the strikers don’t strike with the paltry sticks and the makeshift flint shovels
At the stony marbled coal that hides maybe the pure torrents underneath.
We are trapped in those galleries
Dive into whichever side and the sharp griddle of raw bord cuts at your wrists
The hard strata of ore surly draw farther prisons on your scalp
Shines the blood on the shiny carbuncles.
We are all in transit
Make fucking do!
I shout to the strikers whose baseless uproar threatens our work
We are husks borne by the draft of the revolving doors of renewal
Don’t you fucking understand?
Because they were appalled that I wouldn’t allow the dead to be properly buried
What the fuck would “properly” mean
It is the fucking same
It is the fucking same
It is the fucking same!
Buried or not a corpse is a fucking corpse
The rot is on either way
The flies the grubs the maggots and the bugs
The patches and splotches of liquid rot
It is the fucking same “properly” or not!
So nice that those girls were
The fuzz in my guts (grown ferocious
With extraneous eyes and fangs
Devouring each other – the more proximate the first)
Even the fuzz infallibly yearns
That buried or unburied
Rotting away all the same
The strikers and the dead were already one and the same
As the ugly and the beautiful were for me the same
Indiscriminate I in my attentions
To the scrumptious hulls they so carelessly and adorably left behind
Anonymous underwear which my wounds healingly did wrap
The counted items so deeply inspected before they went into the washing machines
The molted meltings so cherished
The abandoned themselves that they so blatantly forgot or even despised
In their transit to the paradise
Of a future sure promised
Yet so long to really come by to
Where promise gurglingly beckons indeed
Though indeed so very faintly now...
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
25. the rot is on
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