Homonculus (Revis 2/11)

Reading all these poems and musing
However to write myself, and that ineffably
A poem is about the unity breaking a father
Free of the mom into gemineyed peaces,

Monstrosities dazzled, bejeweled -- in short, be-
Lieving, bereft of my riches, it gives me some comfort
To think I can write damn well whatever I
Please before I die; and then, homosexually, that

There is something erotically slender and frail in the slackening
Tide of black fathers, who bathe like a hand in the slap and whorl
Of that slithering fountain, whose whap is a purified pleasure

That always knows what it means. I want, then, not a little death,
But a great, big, monstrous death, a plethora of depths so big
That it swells like the ravishing flood and devours horrified me.

Homunculus (Revis. 2/10)

Reading all these poems like a poem, and thinking
However to write myself, that ineffably
A poem is the union of breaking a father
Free of the mom into gemineyed peas, says

Monstrosities dazzled, bejewelled, in short be-
Reft of my riches, it gives me some comfort
To think I can write damn well whatever I please
Before I die; and when I die, I will think homosexually

Something erotic, and about as frail as the slam-
Black unions of fathers, who bathe like a hand in the slap
Of that slithering fountain, whap of a purified pleasure

That sees what it means. I want, not a little death,
But a great, big, humongous death, a death so big that it swells
Like the ravishing flood and devours primortally horrified me,
// like the brilliant morsels of birds, the bee.

Homunculus

Reading all these poems, thinking about
How to write a poem myself, that inevitably
A poem is in the union of the father breaking
His mom into gemineyed monstrosities,

Bejeweled, bedazzled, in short,
Weary in riches, it gives me some comfort
To think I can say whatever I damn well
Please before I die, and when I die

I think there's something homosexually frail and erotic
About the union with the father, who bathes like a dark hand
And slap in the slithering fountain, the whap of that purified pleasure

That always knows what it means. I want, not a little death,
But a great, big, humongous death, a death so big
That it swells like the primordial flood and devours

Me like the brilliant morsel of fading feasts.