O that dish of peaches!
French silver plate, vintage silver plate,
I have grown quite hungry this evening.
The juice of their garden-fresh meat slithers below my chin,
And sucks this vapid body's holy frontier for the second time.
Like irised nacre from oysters, they are the aphrodisiacs of virile masculinity,
Unorthodox to modern morality and lulling the birth
Of mine own boyhood into manhood.
And it is by gray nature, it is by orange instinct, and it is by red carnal desire
That it shall open eventually, rupturing like Dutch bulbs through the sweat and violent ejaculation,
As it was already inscribed in coding by everything-
The founding helix of it all, opposite to penitent absolution.
As it will, as it will.
And yet the mere act of eating them does not seem
Keen on provoking any power for me
Like it does everyone else;
Are they not supposed to give me the strength of a thousand strongmen?
Instead, I have just grown immeasurably hungry again!
And I want more, many more
Through deliberate regret,
Willful regret hanging in the air
Like an oak truss of murdering wisterias and talking bloody heads.
Soon the silver plate adorned with scorning motifs
Of peaches resting upon the window sill
In my restroom of shells and sweet-smelling miscellanea
Will become appalling once I do it another time.
Even the ripeness will become appalling,
Far too appalling,
And of course I hate it!
I cannot help it.
I had crushed them in my palms, beyond eviscerated them,
Destroyed the centers, and played with their serrated pits
Until my molars cracked and opened into four worms
Like the sun and moon on Armageddon.
Judgment Day, the great hammer and nail of it all
To stop me from annihilating the dish of peaches
In and of itself
As I have always done, as I have always done,
Running the juice of the fourth peach from my lips,
And done the hollow I had made with my collarbone and my naked body,
A stream of contradictory conscientiousness.
And if there were someone here with me,
I would like to lick it from them, too.
O prized fluid to drink and murder again and again!
Rivers and rivers and rivers
Feeding my angst as if it were a beast with two backs to sever
When I am more than done.
I am precise, and so guilt ventilates between each working orifice
Of mine, of the room, and of the now-empty dish.
O how the peaches are gone!
I have eaten them enough to swallow me from this forever hunger,
But at what cost?
The sun is still there, setting,
And so is the moon.
Rays and yellow dustlight peak
Through the window
Like celebratory tinsel,
That color to remind regret it exists,
Leaving only once I commit the act another time.
I will wait until tomorrow,
For another guilty evening,
And they can surely murder me for it.
As it always happens, as it always happens.
