They say you don’t know anything
if you don’t know its inexplicability
and bliss, as if we ought to thank
whoever “they” are for allowing us
to sniff that pot of piss. You once
adored a man with such immensity
that it stuffed every thing which wasn’t
him into a pin-sized airless hole,
which quickly got as hot and swollen
as an abscess. Unholy messes teach
no lesson. Confession and release
are said to lease you happiness but
who knows what the hell that means.
The thing still leans into you like
the stone that blocked the tomb.
(Cliché rhyme with womb.) You know
nothing you can say. And yet you hold
out for the damned thing every day.
.
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