Room 190

January 6, 2017

What is this, beyond this veil,
is it ugly, is it beautiful?
Jesus fucking Christ! Aw, shit!
It’s a bloody nest! Aw fuck, aw Christ…
That’s how it goes, for
the eggs of evil
always outnumber
one’s best efforts, says the priest,
whose eggs, like the worm’s, always were laid
on our best leaves –
there mom nods and smiles
behind the curtain…
But now, in this commended
day of celebration, there’s a meal
of fowl with fruit & almonds,
telling dad again how of his mud’s
made the pastor’s lime –
and grandma’s laughter
is a raptor shriek.
In some french comic, never
retrieved among dad’s old magazines,
a kid receiving death for
christmas; a soldier finding solace
in a peasant house:
stale bread, but a show
of puppets is set
for his pleasure – knights! yellow
the first one, and it looks just like him;
the second in black armor,
a skull for a face; both sword-wielding…
just guess how it goes:
a most short duel,
a clean beheading
and all the peasants laughing,
a burst of gums, teeth black or missing
(death always wins, says
a saggy housewife
while bringing supper);
among them the soldier, now
feeling homesick for Ypres or La Somme;
among them grandma, a most
cheeky lass laughing, her culotte all
showing].

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