Sonnet: The Old In/Out. In/Out, In/Out
by John Kendall Hawkins
Honeyed purp-ose is leaking out of me --
that pure, sweet reason to remain alive,
oozing from my pores, like weeping stars that see
an end to light itself; the gray tattered hive
abandoned, or broken by some child's stone.
The sweet ichor drawing flies, their feet-tongues
dancing, lapping, death as an ice cream cone,
then, on to dog sh*t, life as heaps of dungs.
O the sweet banquet! All the ins and outs --
the coldest foodstuffs turned to steaming turds,
and all of history's desires and doubts
merely the byproduct of processed words.
I'm close to the ground, a rose grows out my ar*e,
scratch and sniff my honeyed tongue -- go on, parse.
(Article changed on May 02, 2021 at 8:31 AM EDT)