My Every Desire

My average desire: Quag. Mire.
But let’s be serious:
There are sharper desires than the wallowing ones.

Clean-cut lust, the looks of Japanese immaculacy
A gash urge, keen, blunt, Ockham’s razor
To meet the expectations of heart and brain
Joining the two ends, love and experimental surgery.
Sure, the shortest wish is always the first to come
True―the direr the swifter.

Is it not the moment, wouldn’t there be blood, honey?
Must we always require the lubricant mush, slush and gush
Sticky sediment and syrupy sentiment instead?
Should that squirming and squealing just mean something?
We aren’t pigs, are we?

It’s not the moment, you say, we are
Drovers in a way, drovers with funny humps.
Let’s cry it quits, you say, it’s really not the moment.
Yikes, you yell, throw that blade away, boy, a mirror, quick! Look
All these scrapes and scratches they are on you, oh my
Old darling
Pan...

Me, singing smaller, wallowing back.


January 22, 2011