Poem: Hieronymus

 

Hieronymus

 

i twist so much, too far,

a worm in the carcass of a limp idea

which can barely move,

even as my rage bucks

and writhes on fire.

 

if i broke off a finger

and wrote red with the exposed bone,

a new quill for some fresh quest,

risen from the superlative pain,

 

if i could stop chasing the ass

of the same sexy spectre,

pretending to be fixated

on lovely, unworldly wings,

 

but no no no

my my my

 

my prayers, sobs and excuses

are an ostinato of sacrilege.

my mouth the self-hurt oval

whose verbal arrows

keep coming back around

 

to stab, fork and eat my dreams,

not only the almost dead thing in the mirror,

a man mostly skull

where passion should be.

 

 

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