The Book

There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.

It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.

He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.

The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.

Pig Man

My stove top is a scalding
temper; overflowing with
ferocious
boiled steam.

My vision is clouded but
I can still see
egotism dripping out of
his over-sized pores.

Someone gave him the body of
a man to hide in. When we
first kissed, his disguise was concrete, at least.
Now, I can see how heaviness
glazes over him, excreting from
inside out.

He is just a pig, with a
fat, round face and
short,
nothing legs.

He does not know that I know.
But he will.

He will know when stove top steam
becomes serene,

after
I thicken the repulsive cream of
his cowardice,
his fear,
his pretentious stench

and pour
it over his puffed-up
self-admiration, and melt
away his disguise.