Soup for the Cesspool

Extravagant, you said

Like dust on a keyboard,

Left neglected, that you use

To pen deathless paeans of love

When the whim of your hormones

Sweeps the field ahead of its army,

Decapitating all who resist

With hands clutching

White scraps to vainly signal

An abject surrender.

Your soul, a wood chipper

Set on ‘fine’ with razor-edged blades

to grind down priaptic tree-trunks

Still dripping with seminal sap,

Accompanied by a Greek chorus

All veiled in red rags, reflexively

Rips into anyone who comes near

Enough to steal a mere glimpse

Of the Bessemer Converter

That is your smouldering

Snatch.

Blood instinct born

Of such psychotropic lust,

Cauterizes purer, loving impulses

In the fragment of time

It takes to squeeze

A left ventricle...

Or a vas deferens.

Pay your penny, take your pick:

What is it all anyway

But soup for

The cesspool

Of life?

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(Image by R. Tesar Gustiar, a rather brilliant and creative artist!)