Eat Shit and Die (A Crush Poem)
.
“I cannot believe in Western sincerity because it is invisible, but in feudal times we believed that sincerity resided in our entrails and if we needed to show our sincerity we had to cut our bellies and take out our visible sincerity.” -Yukio Mishima, 1966
I put a fork through my tongue and dug it firmly through the silk tablecloth and into the table’s oak surface. The hosts summoned their company to the marble dining room. Tuxedoed men held the chairs for their well-heeled wives. My head immovable at the end of the table and my naked body bent at a right angle before them. A butter knife was fully inserted up my asshole. A delirious, but sprightly summer white wine was served. After they finished off the bottles the corkscrew was twisted into the hole of my erect penis. The room was giddily silent, except for the soft buzz of digital cameras zooming in and out. I could see the rococo chandelier’s shadow cast along the wall like the talons of a hawk turned upside down. The butter knife was removed and replaced with one of those oversized wooden pepper grinders that chain Italian restaurants use to pose luxurious. Butternut squash flowers stuffed with porcini mushrooms and grilled Finnish reindeer with a delicate currant-raspberry sauce was presented. The guests began to discuss politics. A server was summoned by hand and shot; an example for someone’s theory I couldn’t fully hear. The corkscrew was twisted out of my cock and several bottles of ’89 Chilean pinot noir were opened. While they were breathing, my nipples were clamped by walnut crackers (taken from the antechamber’s bar) and my chest skin was peeled until the muscle was left exposed. An intelligent looking woman made a drunk slur on the President and everyone laughed hysterically while nodding in agreement. The pepper grinder was removed and I involuntarily excreted onto the worn Persian rug. Bowties were undone and straps from dresses hung off the shoulders of the tall women. It was incredibly hot; sweat clung to our brows like tiny, evaporating mirrors. The mint infused sorbet with shaved chocolate truffles was taken away, half-eaten by the body conscious guests. Blood from my tongue had dried along the entire tablecloth where white napkins were now randomly strewn in a post meal sigh of mock concession to earned indulgence. My shit was siphoned onto a silver tray rimmed with embossed Baroque flowers. The fork was pulled from my tongue and placed in my impotent hand. I ate shit and died while they smoked their occasional cigarettes.
.
.
.
.
<< Home
“I cannot believe in Western sincerity because it is invisible, but in feudal times we believed that sincerity resided in our entrails and if we needed to show our sincerity we had to cut our bellies and take out our visible sincerity.” -Yukio Mishima, 1966
I put a fork through my tongue and dug it firmly through the silk tablecloth and into the table’s oak surface. The hosts summoned their company to the marble dining room. Tuxedoed men held the chairs for their well-heeled wives. My head immovable at the end of the table and my naked body bent at a right angle before them. A butter knife was fully inserted up my asshole. A delirious, but sprightly summer white wine was served. After they finished off the bottles the corkscrew was twisted into the hole of my erect penis. The room was giddily silent, except for the soft buzz of digital cameras zooming in and out. I could see the rococo chandelier’s shadow cast along the wall like the talons of a hawk turned upside down. The butter knife was removed and replaced with one of those oversized wooden pepper grinders that chain Italian restaurants use to pose luxurious. Butternut squash flowers stuffed with porcini mushrooms and grilled Finnish reindeer with a delicate currant-raspberry sauce was presented. The guests began to discuss politics. A server was summoned by hand and shot; an example for someone’s theory I couldn’t fully hear. The corkscrew was twisted out of my cock and several bottles of ’89 Chilean pinot noir were opened. While they were breathing, my nipples were clamped by walnut crackers (taken from the antechamber’s bar) and my chest skin was peeled until the muscle was left exposed. An intelligent looking woman made a drunk slur on the President and everyone laughed hysterically while nodding in agreement. The pepper grinder was removed and I involuntarily excreted onto the worn Persian rug. Bowties were undone and straps from dresses hung off the shoulders of the tall women. It was incredibly hot; sweat clung to our brows like tiny, evaporating mirrors. The mint infused sorbet with shaved chocolate truffles was taken away, half-eaten by the body conscious guests. Blood from my tongue had dried along the entire tablecloth where white napkins were now randomly strewn in a post meal sigh of mock concession to earned indulgence. My shit was siphoned onto a silver tray rimmed with embossed Baroque flowers. The fork was pulled from my tongue and placed in my impotent hand. I ate shit and died while they smoked their occasional cigarettes.
.
.
.
.
<< Home
