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[poetry] and rot
Nov. 2nd, 2009 05:22 pmMe at 4AM: OH MY GOD, A PENIS HAS BECOME MY OVERARCHING METAPHOR!
Yeah. It's pretty obvious where my mind has been lately (read: in the gutter. Why is it that every time I write it ends up awash with sexuality?) Oh, and I've been reading a lot of Kay Ryan and Margaret Atwood. Not that it necessarily shows.
AND ROT
Fix'd like a plan on his peculiar spot,
to draw nutrition, propagate...
- Alexander Pope
It is not a new desire
to remake oneself.
Narcissus did it when satyrs
were still kicking up clods of Grecan hillside,
carrying off maidens, eating olives.
"You must be born again": that was Jesus.
Rebirth is only one of many options.
Not very popular.
Who would choose to scrabble up the red interior
slope of their life, and then
be heaved out again, bloody with phlegm,
head as flat as a shovel? You didn't.
Once was enough.
Transformation, then; that is the way to go.
When Hyacinth was beheaded by a discus, Apollo
made a flower from his splattered blood. At first
it seems rude, but it was a loving metamorphosis.
Full-bodied, pink, thrusting upwards: this is what
the sun-god saw, looking on him, and recreated faithfully.
Such is the general rule for these processes.
When God created man, it was in his image.
Not of it. We too are pink, full, vertical.
By the time of your grandfathers Hyacinth's body
will become a machine; a compilation
of materials common to these
systems, calcium, iron, oil,
blood. Humanity will become
a conglomerate of joints and hinges.
Like recreation, this is not a new idea either.
Descartes wrote of an earthen machine
when health was still ruled by humors.
"Recharge your body": we've heard that too.
Draw out the cables, the electrical
grid, the plugs male and female,
the lubricant, and insert.
Deere plows thrust themselves
into the blunt shape of locomotives.
Blood creates a circuit of your running flesh.
You palm the pale salmon pill, fish oil
to lubricate your system, and swallow
down the pink crush of your throat.
None of this is a science;
only an approximation.
fin.
Yeah. It's pretty obvious where my mind has been lately (read: in the gutter. Why is it that every time I write it ends up awash with sexuality?) Oh, and I've been reading a lot of Kay Ryan and Margaret Atwood. Not that it necessarily shows.
AND ROT
Fix'd like a plan on his peculiar spot,
to draw nutrition, propagate...
- Alexander Pope
It is not a new desire
to remake oneself.
Narcissus did it when satyrs
were still kicking up clods of Grecan hillside,
carrying off maidens, eating olives.
"You must be born again": that was Jesus.
Rebirth is only one of many options.
Not very popular.
Who would choose to scrabble up the red interior
slope of their life, and then
be heaved out again, bloody with phlegm,
head as flat as a shovel? You didn't.
Once was enough.
Transformation, then; that is the way to go.
When Hyacinth was beheaded by a discus, Apollo
made a flower from his splattered blood. At first
it seems rude, but it was a loving metamorphosis.
Full-bodied, pink, thrusting upwards: this is what
the sun-god saw, looking on him, and recreated faithfully.
Such is the general rule for these processes.
When God created man, it was in his image.
Not of it. We too are pink, full, vertical.
By the time of your grandfathers Hyacinth's body
will become a machine; a compilation
of materials common to these
systems, calcium, iron, oil,
blood. Humanity will become
a conglomerate of joints and hinges.
Like recreation, this is not a new idea either.
Descartes wrote of an earthen machine
when health was still ruled by humors.
"Recharge your body": we've heard that too.
Draw out the cables, the electrical
grid, the plugs male and female,
the lubricant, and insert.
Deere plows thrust themselves
into the blunt shape of locomotives.
Blood creates a circuit of your running flesh.
You palm the pale salmon pill, fish oil
to lubricate your system, and swallow
down the pink crush of your throat.
None of this is a science;
only an approximation.
fin.
