Hundred-Handed Duel (Thousand-Fingered Fist)

                    i. ICD-10: F65.89

          After the kisses were cleaned off
the stone, dangerous images
gone, your earth’s shapely bones shone with
all those impatient particles
     of Creation’s deft artistry

                    polished to brilliant cautery,
                    industrious industrial
                         lips stripping by venomous flame

original sin’s serpentine,
syndicated memory, and
when you emerged hotter than white,
from its pride’s glacial light my blush
     ivoried, for to be pined for

                    by that deep forest reclining
                    between your thighs caused my oar to
                         row, my destroyer to course far

toward the unknown just to drown,
my hull to burrow in your mound,
sending forth hordes of boars to pound
your den with hooves defiant and
     deliberate, trampling with force

                    my coming on your ground with all
                    the worst powder-burned glory of
                         a hundred-handed duel, or

thousand-fingered fists gripping lust’s
engorged weapons, as if shooting
down my quest would quell your flesh’s
somehow fresh, sepulchral appeal
     come-hithering my quench, so with

                    filial fury and no fear,
                    I disembarked, jettisoned my
                         decency, and dug from under

those pigs with the freak frenzy of
a far wilder beast, what treat those
bristled things sought to beat me to,
an unkindness of might trifling
     for truffles, and finding you still

                    warm when my thumb broke through, lifting
                    to existence’s uncertain
                         surface pure filth my untrimmed nails

transported, I sniffed and knew that
if, by punching the hole, my thick
digits could double their efforts
and work harder to unfurl an
     eyelid of a soul, winking where,

                    when in this world, monthly you had
                    wept, I would succeed in plugging
                         where you had bled by fingering

you, rendering entering your
tomb a noble deed, championed
instead of Nature’s voyageurs,
sent by barbarian kings to
     conquer you, her seigneurial

                    ii. DSM-5: 302.89

          lieges and labourers sworn to
siege virgin wilderness, but turned
by cruel winters into brute
creatures for whom heralds’ pens would
     blazon puns of arms, coated in

                    coded meanings only the sons
                    of these oldest armigerous
                         families would read into, and

though gentry, where I landed I
forewent converting the natives,
and naïvely went to work, like
lightning dividing the swine herd,
     fighting them off, claiming my queen’s

                    territory not with letters
                    patent or heredity, but
                         with leathern palms, worn and eager

to enter you deep, and erect
an impenetrable keep where
my Scoto-Norman scrotum could
unload our shares of this queerest
     genealogy, from which I

                    could some night retreat, and when I
                    did, I deposited my trust
                         and seeded to new growth what was

remnant of your body, filling it
with replicas of me, soldiers
battering the eel-slick, ram-horned
curls of death’s worms, buttering their
     pearls of sweating forms, silk stitches

                    belligerent in defending
                    the door, but without frustration,
                         having neither shame nor any

reservation, with my spade I
dug, my tongue a knife trumping those
knaves making of your cunt’s cave an
unplanned garden, and I of my
     ancestress a whore, and I dug

                    with the reverent foreboding
                    of an incestuous grandchild
                         for his buried forebear, daring

heaven when I fucked you until
hell’s mouth closed, and its moths made meals
of scrolls memorializing
my bold defiling of your moist,
     maternal folds, fighting our urge

                    to deny consanguinity
                    and intolerant centuries,
                         to lust and to live without threat

of penalty, yet after such
effort and energy, after
espousing so much blasphemy,
my misadventure revealed I
     was in the wrong cemetery.