...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...

I think this is done (or at least close to), so I share.


The caress of the eye over the skin
is so utterly, so extraordinarily gentle,
and the sensation is so bizarre that it has
something of a rooster's horrible crowing...

       She played gaily with words, speaking about
       breaking eggs, and then breaking eyes, and her
       arguments became more and more unreasonable.

-Georges Bataille

                    The eye

is the asshole of the face.

       It took me 30 years to realize this?

Pupil nothing but space
caught in the rectal tightening
of captured light.
Sphinctal aperture: surely
puts a damper on the notion of
"eye as window to the soul."

       What is the soul anyway
       if not a tight fart trapped in chambers,

In orgasm: it crows, it crows.

Pupil and asshole dilate.
More light enters eye to illuminate: Soul
huddled in a corner chamber?
loosened in a sloppy rattle
from the other end,
to our horror and surprise?

Ah the ass, the eye.
Bataille. Bataille.
The socket as erotic
as the inner thigh.

                    The egg

       she sighs.
If only the mouth could scream
something so perfect and horrible.
Drop one word
that could kill
like detonation,
smear everything to light,
to white.

       House with no walls.
       Pear pulled from mouth.
       The earth is moving,
       universe expanding,
       and still

                    there is the egg.

Union of eye and ass:
smooth scatological orb.
Is there anything more perfect
and obscene?

       The only thing
       to separate birth from
       piss and excrement:
       the cloacal flap.

Filthy and sacrosanct.
Wherein lies the soul?

The muscular squeeze and

it drops to the table

                    the perfect poem.




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