BOWELS

Where serpents sleep
the sleep of denial,
so long you might hang yourself
in their soft coils.  Bowels groan
with what you force inside
with all the despair
they must contain.  Bowels weep
the tears of the demented
stinking of confusion
and neglect.  Your life
ends here:  in the waste
of foldings and unfoldings,
the end of hunger,
the ultimate failure of your mouth
to consume all
you needed.

—Steve Rasnic Tem


Steve Rasnic Tem Website

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