'in the eye of the seer'

I found a little baby
I hung it from my prick
it makes the day seem brighter,
with a baby on your dick.
I hung it from a little hook,
it nestled gently in the crook
between my cock and leg.

I taught it how to juggle,
I taught it how to eat.
I taught it how to piss, of course,
(it couldn't help but see)
I taught it how to cut its meat
with scissors glinting keen,
then rap-a-dang-ding,
with one simple swing,
it snipped off my thing
and was gone.
                           b. grubbs

.

Against the glass my fingers spread
Beyond which children dance, alive
In each one daring to be each,
Against the ice I lean my head,
To watch the sun crest ev'ry blade
Of grass abundantly profuse,
With each one daring to be lone,
As I had been in youth submerged,
The moist cadaver of my past:
As from the bursting lungs of death
A drowning sailor grasps the air,
And bushmen quicksand fast depart,
My eyes found airport, stench of sweat,
And empty bottles, empty threats.

..

waves of mortality
decorate this floor
the crushed breast of a red bird
(...bravely presented to his children,
loves, potential, combat for the self replicated)
the sticking leaves of a fallen tree
rot's sweet ichor repulsing my nostrils

yet i have escaped
a greater sweetness of stench
the clotted ways of breath
whisking through the streets,
collossal power of fluid retribution,
clinging each to its fragments,
as if to balance the whole
in the destruction of the tiny.
like clinging hooks,
gnats.

here these feet i think
enshrined far from safety
must be i think happier
yet wistful, as the eyes,
touching each cell in the skin,
each twitching hair,
will never witness themselves in reflection
seemingly never (again, perhaps)
in the deep smooth muscular lakes
of admonishing eyes.

...

in the best howl of his words,
among of course his (devices &
rhythms & symbol syndicate) work
he paused, breath over beard,
then returned, shoes hard against the wind,
to speak out the last utterances
of some great man
on paper.
into the heedless they flee,
paper birds over the harsh flare
of an invisible city, burning.

....

purpled like my oldest vein
sky reaches past a concrete rooftop
another incarnation of security and stolidity
each grey emplacement a brick,
mechanical, plotted, intricate resistance
to the depth of infinite indefinite
grasping space.  drifting into space is freedom,
falling out of space is progression.

from here to beyond the space extrudes,
extensible yearning lurking, a drawing lust,
it takes the flesh of the young,
and perverts the will of the old,
into dreadful casting tears, siding the face,
battered in the thousand wars of a mundane lifetime,
defeated in the abscess of time.

                           s.r.p.