fifteen
What speaks in specks of homosexual,
like man alive or perished—
lingering—
unwashed and unfulfilled.
What sings in song of patriarchal
like woman pushed or punished—
lingering—
unwashed and unfulfilled.
What starts in stabs of retroactive
like skins arrayed and tarnished—
lingering—
unwashed and unfulfilled.
What stomps and stirs in bits of power!
What crosses below the rivers!
What washes the feet of the well-to-do!
What comes and flies and bombs and kills!
What lingers on in ivory towers!
No greater sound than that of him:
the devil! Death! The fiendish demon,
who with his stunning cherry red,
carries on his back
a wooden cross
and watches as the men do weep
their precious powers lost
waiting for the holy day
when they too will rise again!
when their feet will be washed in the glorious grace of God!
when the world will be set anew by the banishment of the unwashed and unfulfilled!
Now they wait,
spouting bits of hypothetical hypocritical hypothesis—
lingering—
unwashed and always unfulfilled.
