Consuls of the Flesh

At random moments starkly independent

of whatever time is –
so ridiculously fleet they won’t permit
the least investigation –

Consuls of the Flesh convene
serenely to survey and oversee
the current scene
of our unlikely incarnation.

Appointed by the Empire of the Epicene Realities
of Malleable Human Tissue, Skin and Cartilage,
they nudge each other into whims
and dares: deciding on varieties

of various indifferent motives
how and when
to rev up or decrease
somatic cares.

With gentle tremors in their pendulous
protuberances, bulbous masses and erectile cysts –
and all the rest of what persists
upon their soft eternally mutating bodies –

they may select us to join glorious regattas
of supernal pulchritude –
they may eject our sorry asses
into the abyss of ugliness and sickness –

or dismiss us
as not interesting enough –
at least for now –
to bother with.

That can constitute reprieve.
Today they took a look at me –
ho-hummed about my lack of style –
then took their leave. I’ll be around a while.





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