A bulbous throat of thunder,
cannibal maw of the bog,
living half its life under
the duckweed with eyes agog,
squirming out from clustered eggs
with tail to race, feed, and grow,
hopping on humanoid legs
to hunt and breed and bellow.
a shadow abloom
from a stalk, yet dead,
gloom against the gloom.
Cursed with an unnatural lust
she hid in a wooden statue
for a horny suitor whose bust
her son would inherit too true.
They’re quite a pair of warring wits
fighting over not much of aught,
and so, for all their barbs and fits,
there is much ado about nought.
Firstborn, yet never born,
scooped from a womb of earth,
yet from me would be torn
she who would first give birth.
To give blood, and yet not the first
among killers, nor the one cursed,
but the first among the slain,
blood for blood—sacrifice in vain.
A wager cost him dearly,
though not a wager he made,
losing it all, or nearly,
except his faith which repaid
his losses, although not all
those who lost, and were thus laid
to rest to prove him God’s thrall.
Like a monotonous drum machine
hidden within a latchless chest,
beating along nearby, yet unseen,
restless until your final rest.
A bio-weapon shaped like a mushroom cloud,
from sphere to sphere its influence expands,
proliferating widely, a few allowed
into its hidden bunker, their keen hands
meaning to defuse the damaged, faulty wires
with skills of scalpel scarce in the wide world,
fixing the electric triggers and misfires
from which all human madness is unfurled.
Shadows patterned on flame,
icon of Nature’s law,
hunter in search of game,
snow on belly and jaw.
Blake’s beast of innate sin,
creeping, lurking, bounding,
khan among trembling men,
its lightning voice sounding.
Despite the slang term for my career
I do not treat hydrocephalus,
my patients on a couch while I hear
confessions pour from their mouths, like pus.
Buckle on belt, buckle on boot,
buckle on hat, buckle on loot—
chase widespread colors in the sky
where they arch, oh so very high,
and catch the lowest of the low
making merry by midday glow.