true evil is in the nature of pus.
purulent, yellow, green, orange, beige, puce, or brownish-jerkoff yellow,
running from the degraded eyes of a minister with six catholic boys impaled on
his skinny penis. behind him the mother mary bleeds from an exposed breast
encircled in thorns. two steps behind that the altar collapses, and a seething
fart blasts the twain stone halves through stained glass windows, the broken
glass descending like four thousand bloodvials cast at the sun.
pus, slitting silently from the slit of a slut, slopping slovelnly onto her
thighs as she laughs at a dinner party, hors d'ouvre perched on on leg, tossing
her spitty tongue from one man to the next, trying her thighs on for the size
of the universe, oozing pus as she picks checkbooks and drifts like the corpse
of a fish on waves through the assaults on truth she concocts to fabricate her
sloshes softly against the shore, oozing from the porelike mouth of the death
accountant with the speaking problem that brought four x four columbians and
their shiny clickclack shoes to slice him, splice him, slash him and slam him
into the trunk of the car, now sunken beneath pus-covered pus-desecrated
seaweeds, above the body of his family who happened to be with him at the time.
pus in a dying kiss from an 80-yr-old cancer patient festering in her hollow
ward from mustard gas & methadone & mercury that floated like invisible pus
from the water supply...
nothing new under the sun but above the sky sings its undone and mankind
troubles in the fields to kiss and tell to tell and feel and there is nothing
left at home but confrontation, the great unknown; i found her on a sunday blue
and now she calls to say it's gone and there is nothing left for fun and there
is nothing for the sun...never leaving my last house, never moving onward out
never kissing more dead ground never finding the last word never writing
slavery never slaving writer's pain, and never, ever, never poeticizing in
plain blood and bodies made of ice we wander through these appliance days and
find our controls by our corpses made to last a thousand years...the circle
eyes and shuddering the earth it heaves and breathes and sighs and i can't see
beyond this day because out there is where danger lies and people coughing,
running, singing playing with the chanting priest; above it all there is no
lying, only prediction, predilection and defeat...
Return to index.