Imperially distant,unashamedly overt –
used to all your
wanton sloppy jerks
and twitches:
coolly inured
to your rash fickle
blast and sudden
exit: pegs it
for the brash
involuntary thrust
it is, and isn’t busy
wondering too much
about the rest of what
you do. You are
its little shmoo:
completely in its
power and as malleably
true to it as it decides.
Fulminating
in the tiny booth
you occupy away
from it in which
you live your little life –
the part that doesn’t
slice you into
slavery – which is
to say, the smallest
bit, you are its
acolyte, proponent
and exacting P.R. man:
proclaiming its
philosophy as if it –
fresh! – had just
occurred to you: flesh
is flesh, but never
word. The palace
of the phallus –
prepuce unfolding –
baring ultimate truths
holding in all possible
conditions and in all
possible worlds.
Be enfurled.
.
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