Beast

Yours is the heart.

We have never played together
in all the years that we have been
together, in the baptismal font,
or lounging on the sofa or the
chaise. Yet the beads that we
could have made
could have strung
are sprawled out like a pack
of African beasts are scattered
on the savanna, specifically, and idly at that.

Especially pertaining is the manner in which
you fight against the droves of seagulls or the ugly horseflies
by placing two cigarettes in the heart of a wildebeest and stroking your throat
roughly with one hand, tight as a gibbet's joints.
Your young and creaking arthritis. Your sleep apnea. Joys! Joys!

You chill your bones with a great deal of fruits, dealing
in zen and violence in equal measure and similar explosion.
Convulsing, as you do, as you will, if you would, out of revulsion,
repulsing, spurting maggot zebra.

You have been expelled from the inner sanctum
with zen and violence in equal measure. And,
with zen and violence in equal measure,
you fell beasts and fabricate any number of elaborate carpets.
Listen to your occidental symphonies and thump your breast,
your thumping beast heart. Pounding at that.