Poetry

As Read by William Burroughs

By February 5, 2010 No Comments

There’s mystery in my hand, when it crawls up railings like a hungry spider

Through the window, I see the shaking of a bush in piss-pitched universe
And know it’s not a bearded man, pulling uncountable strings, jigging and giggling in the nude
Besides, it was not this man that broke the atom, it was a mustached man
Furthermore, it was not either man that writhed the blade, it was I

The torn particles of skin lash out and bite back, sending a morbid feeling of sour onions
Yet, like π, my dissected hand has a reason to hurt
A surgeon knows no bounds, and neither does chase, as I slobber up steep and glaring stairs
Screaming lets me know I’m confident in what my bloodshot body presents before me:
A daring escape from a curious and knowing creature

The scratch, scratch, scratching on the door slides nails apart, giving way to further pursuit
A sloth moves onto a sticky maroon canvas and stares down with a dentist grin
Iron bitterness leaks onto the one-day-masterpiece, and I bite my lip at art like a critic mudslide

Sasquatching forward, I rorschach my trail searching for the frightened bugger
Like myself, twenty minutes ago, it stumped into hiding, leaving printed O’s on the chestnut floor
There it shook in a pasty white corner, a child afraid of learning
Before a splashed Pollack backdrop still dripping with punches

Who the hum of Jingle Bells was for, I do not know
But it wasn’t for Jesus or the Joker, and certainly not to soothe either end of my alienated extremity
It was just there, filling the humid room with anticipation, fear, hunger and song

The walls, the ceiling, the dresser, even the wire-stranded desk, crouched behind my bending body
As I leaned in with my predator brother
Then, in shattered dehydration, I squeezed the fuck out of that miserable piece of myself
And lynched my incisors into its gushing biology
There, as my lunula horn scraped the back of my throat, I knew for the first time in my life
That I could be happy