Large and Ignoble
I'm being eaten,
singed hair, cracked bones,
open sores.
So this is solitude
and no one cares
much like that large immobile tadpole
with soulful, pleading eyes
being eaten by a crowd
of smaller ferocious tadpoles
and no one cared there either.
I'm being eaten.
Two women come down on me, shaking what they got, shouting
"You're too, too
sensitive.
Get a life,
get on with it."
Laugh?
I would but I'm too hung up.
I'm being eaten.
Whose teeth, jaws, mouths?
Who salivate over me?
Wait a second, did I hear someone say mercy?
Mercy indeed, for me? Or better ants, dragonflies, cattle, pigs
and all the rest.
We're being eaten
even as we're eating.
Tra-la-la-la, eating and being eaten.
A dipsy-doo and I would be solemn
exuding gravitas if I could;
bar that, traces of the demonic.
Not to Be an Ex-
Pardon but
what I have heaved
further,
much further than dumbbells
or glitzy mimicries
of former selfs,
restlessly trying to sleep,
left twitching
by a road, hardly sentient, with a final calculated move
through some lack-lustre grey,
washed-out, galled, sanctioned
less and more, not to be an ex-, not to despair
but bellow fixated
once only
on catchalls
and the fetidness of
each twisted, turned from, leftover microscopic duress.
