Castitooshigations

Let’s try to take the measured earthbound view:
evince the sort of body-laden equilibrium
that might just make a fine fit animal of you:
pick through the front-lines
of your consciousness
to find the bits that proffer unsymbolic thinking:

“should I stuff an egg or kick a football?” –
something that prevents the sinking
and the bluffing puffery of involuted
self-examinations, with their proto-sicknesses
and folderol and castitooshigations:
which, besides which, get thick in the way

of sex and piss and food and drink and sleep
and all the other excretory, incretory bodily
sensations, functions, blinkingly
unconscious celebrations of the flesh,
than which there are no better ways
of living pleasurably. Keep it fresh:

activate a confluence of motor
instincts – scrap that nuanced
questionably “fascinating” introspective mesh.
Be a constitutionally un-poetic treat. Condense
into the potent unadulterated essence
of your dumb inimitable meat.

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