Hymn For a Dying Phallus

Some may admire me, but only those who know me know that I'm truly evil in Love. Better to make them fear you than to run.

Look, but don't touch. Always. You will be the one suffering. I am the villain. I am low and material. I write with voice. I write with forcing.

"Don't love a man who loves dogs. They will want to command you."

You chose right in running away. I am the dead God, the stag slain. I am July in Christmas.

I commend this shrivelled masculinity to Amun-Ra.

I am no brave, but the cowardice and taker of things that come easily. I am old now. I remember a time before I thought too much. When trees were green and I was worshipped.

I have fallen. Permanently deposed. Seek not the light. There is no truth in't.

Wave away from me, anemone. Woman's a distant eternity.

The executioner's mask knows no face.

Death is indeed
like my phallus
only a little death
and a little
on target.

Death is a pinprick
but only a little one.
Size matters
when it comes to everlasting.

Comments

  1. penanceDecember 14, 2012 at 11:48 AM

    Deep. Incredibly deep. And touching... oops, no touching.

    ReplyDelete

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