Friday, May 23, 2014

Manhole



I pry that rattling mirror from the wall,
try to angle it so I can see up
the raw, fiery pucker 
of my own asshole,
that dark corridor from which emanates
only death and waste
So I can look into that mouth
which does not consume but merely spews,
toothlessly babbling its language of flatulence.
I twist and contort my torso in order
to stare myself in that one squinting eye,
The stinking socket that stares 
blindly back.
If I had a cunt, things would be different.
I could gaze upon the source of all life
and fixate on creation, on fertility and birth
rather than decay. In its place there’s just
this blunt object 
eager to pound its way through the world, 
this brainless battering ram,
slobbering and oblivious of the void,
of the horror that gapes
right around the corner.
It would be better to have an orifice
whose emptiness signifies
creative potential, to remind us that
the screaming from the pit
is not just a howl of despair
but an echoing cry of life.

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