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Thumbs or Fags

June 5, 2015

Sucking my thumb was the second worst habit of my infancy,

The worst being scrupulously picking my nose but then eating the bogey

The texture of which I mulled on to the point of declaring that certain balls of snot

Tasted to me like strawberry.

I developed a strong stomach but damaged the vital filters of my nose.

Ask your doctor if you don’t know what makes a boy suck his thumb

A stubby pink cork to stopper his mouth, back and shoulders down,

Sticking that digit into his childish gob, completing an inwardly curled body shape,

His lips clinging on, his suction drawing him to the warmth of his own hand

A pathetic imitation of a comfortably unborn foetus.

I was very young, though to be truthful never really youthful,

Less than ten years old, or eleven at most

(Before more mature distractions such as Catwoman came along),

Not smiling for the school photo in case I would show buck teeth

The visible evidence of my hours on the thumb.

I knew that my bad habits could

Have a bad effect on the structure of my personal architecture

The verbal proof of my thumb sucking youth

Great difficulty pronouncing certain combinations of letters,

Important phrases such as “the form of the verb”

So smoking seemed a better comfort and a step up,

Stood up straight, elegantly posing with my phallic fag

Facing this noir world through artful clouds of smoke

Just like in the movies, a real man like Clint or Bogey

Fit to face the Dietrichs and tough guys, the late trains and missed planes

Refusing a blindfold but taking a drag on yet another ciggie

Marking the time and each missed chance butt by dirty butt

Knowing the bad effects, but seeing poisoning myself as an act of defiance.

And so I remain aware of both my silhouette and of the scraps of or from myself

That I deposit, drop, flick at the world to hide or establish a trace of my presence

Trying to create a certain effect, but all too aware of the effect I am in fact creating,

Too much time spent under low ceilings, consuming my own shoddy substance

Not enough understanding the difference that good architecture can make,

To structure the material we’ve been given,

Incorparate it into a greater design

Allow the air to move freely, create a door we can open easily.

[Written in response to this:

My idea being to show how the way one interacts with materials from one’s own body may effect its ‘architecture’.]


From → Poet

  1. Reblogged this on JPF Goodman.


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