Fuck you, Mister John Donne
Ocean sweat collects
in the crook
as he sleeps,
ass against ocean
floor, stretched out.
Cursed with geography
and stomach rumbling--
navel filling with
water, then draining
as he snores.
They will write
textbooks on measuring
his features, conduct
surveys of his
pores, plant flags.
They will lather
themselves into war
over his risen
knees, lose lives
at the battle
for his earlobe,
sign peace treaties,
then drown as
he turns over.
-- Ben Rawluk.
Written in two drafts (the first one given in to certain puncuational excesses) at Dolce Vita over hot chocolate while
Christian wrote about his day at school. There was a Stitch & Bitch at the next table. I feel like being a poet again.