Sunday, 16 April 2017

Three Poems by Fusiform Gyrus

Cigar Cutter

He fights the 
fleeting under 
-analysed urge 
to feed his
flaccid cock into 
the cigar cutter 

threading stretching
malleable pink
pang as 
little veins spill 
like beansprouts 
from a half-eaten 

egg roll. 

(after Bataille) 

A gagging last 
supper of blush 
pink vomit 
and seed 
a strained kiss as 
the blood 
begins to drain 
and the member 

Oresteia’s severed 
sobbing cock 
from either end 
by Clytemnestra 
and the tongueless 
unstitched maw 
Agamemnon’s corpse

impotent in his revenge 
Oresteia kisses his 
mother goodnight 
his cock still lodged 
deep in her throat 
ad speculum 
he tongues his father 
and sits back to 
leak black life 
his cloying 
numb hole 

moulding his masque-
mortuaire clawing 
a life 
Arcadian laughter 
rattling discordances 
a bag pipe of death 
sounding gaseous 

and as Oresteia’s work-
worn soul shuffles 
away head 
in shame 
the slimy morsel 
and priggishly chews 
before taking it back 
in one 
triumphant gulp. 

Reamus Remedium 
Or How Sick Poets Console Themselves (after Nietzsche)

Glory to a prolapsed anus  
a different kind of honesty 
perspectival in its hangin
reluctance to platitudes 
and  growing with each 

unclean fist

Glory to a prostitute 
a different kind of adonis
grappling dismaying over-
coming with vitality 
to the endstrom 

wrought and fecund with decay 

Glory to a politician flayed 
and salted a different 
of austerity 

Glory to a depraved moralist 
a different kind of justice convinced
of the higher legitimation in a 
truthfully selfish sainthood 

Glory to a leper apocather 
a different kind of apotheosis 

Glory to a mythopoet so sick 
with syphilis autochthon to 
sisyphus a different kind 
of genus 


Glory to his swollen red prick
carried weeping bursting
around the cobbled back alleys
whispering to it in aphorisms 
the throbbing ghost of Turin.

*Variant versions of Oresteia and Reamus Remedium initially published in the April 2017 issue of X-Peri 


They call him the Fusiform Gyrus
Some say he was born of a virus
But when push came to shove
He rose above

Laying dormant and ever-so guile-less... 

No comments:

Post a Comment