Ball Lightning

We’d have to conjure up the meteorologically new
to render any justice to phenomena of you –
a sentient ball of cold gold lightning might just do –
some sparking dangerous and brightly massed
assortment of proclivities which offered blindingly

exasperating prospects of unprecedented blooming –
looming sometimes like a starburst into view as if
Beelzebub had just ejaculated clouds of wild rebellious
sperm all bent on skewing his dark chromosomal
demon legacy into angelic light – at odds with his

more usual determination to destroy: you are
the sort of toy a god would play with – as gods do,
I would imagine, play with you: I’d scoop you into both
my palms and drop you into some clear melon dish
and spoon you up like honeydew, and warm your

coolness in my gullet and my gut: cut you enzymatically
into manageable bits, digestible at least for tiny
sprits of moment: ‘til the mass of you fomented
irresistible resistance and got free: which would,
of course, quite mark the last and gasping end of me.

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