I’m dinner table talk,
In your vain memory as I remain a pain
Wherever you turn
The underside of your deeply etched conscience burns.
Years will pass. Many years will pass like
Empty wind that passes through:
Where the thorny memory of my
Horny face will live on to
Continuously unsettle you. Hold tight, you know,
To that man that — now — gives you sup,
To the wholesomeness that, in the present tense,
You grant a finger’s space to excite the
Holesomeness others finger in their sleep.
Find some subversive moment of me
Deposited deep down somewhere some deep.
Wherever you turn, wherever you move your feast,
Cover your fattening belly with what betrays the
Fattening the least. You will return over and over
To my omnipresent gaze; where in this all powerful
Imaginative eye, in an all consuming frying pan you lie.
Try hard to delete the memory that you try.