death devours what it cannot see, let alone a puny poem;
or which poem is the punitive
qualm...
   what is seen devours itself in a phrase
equivalent of vegetable
making its journey in a heap
of worm glut... damnable, regurgitated
inside out,
        oysters for a larynx...
           i take to the double narcissus myth,
i take to watching myself
   from the posit of directing one mirror
into another mirror to see, whether i really
have a beard...
              and whether i ought to
       fiddle with it... and then i revoke taking
drags from a cigarette...
  i put the burning tip into my mouth and inhale,
then i put the filter tip into my mouth and do
likewise; then i insert the burning tip of a cigarette
into my mouth and inhale, then
i touch my lips on the filter end of the cigarette...
backwards and forwards like that,
until i finish the **** thing,
and think of a world that originated with
the male concerns for owning ******* and not having
to write of a god with it missing.
                     such revisions are not exactly keratin (
derivative of carrot)
borne as to why we cut our hair or our toenails...
it wasn't a catrilage revision either...
       they did say though: tight the *******, eh?
  tight the purse with a woman fully dressed
and you sorta dressed with a naked sword and no
sheaf, eh? how's that numbed helmet of your
doing in a second pair of trousers that's the underwear?
not thinking about going commando?