My sinuses are loud, and -- like a chimp
Exhibit (grinning, screeching, dirty) -- they
Disturb me. Somewhere in my damaged, limp,
And fading skull-space, "self" gets in the way:
Sub-human and post-primate. There's a hole
Inside my head, a honeypot for trash,
A cavity half-filled with filthy soul-
Dust interspersed with mucus, blood, and ash.
What a piece of work is man, infinite
In sickened, cavernous unease, so wilted
Beside a sinal sea. The primates sit
Atop Mount Sinus, old-man faces tilted
Towards the void. The largest screams and flings
His waste: "My verse," he pens; "My voice," he sings.
1 comment:
Another one from the airplane home. Obviously, still sick, although perhaps not sick as balls...
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