Sestina
If there really is a babymade of plastic,
I think that it must feed
on a continually twisting energy
that is a sense of the universe
outside of all suffering.
It is, darling, this suffering
that I give to you, baby.
Take it, honey, and make an offering to the universe
as atonement for all that is fake in you, dear, all that is plastic.
If you infuse it with enough penitent energy
it just may on your sacrifice feed.
I let my hatred feed
on long-planned necessary suffering,
subverted inward-pointed energy.
My clear-sighted baby
is not steel but plastic--
the building block of the universe.
And it is built high and tall, this universe.
Nothing becomes everything; there is a constant feed.
I’m sorry I don’t have cash I’ll use my plastic.
My hatred is based purely on Christ’s suffering,
the guilt of which I have lived with since I was a baby,
the slow accrual of loathsome pitying energy.
This morning I was so full of energy,
I awakened and there it was, the universe.
For once I was grounded, like a baby
crying for a nipple on which to feed.
The primal suffering
for living flesh, not pretend, not plastic.
You must bend in the wind, you must be plastic:
through movement release energy.
Lie back into your suffering
as you lie back into expanding forever universe.
It is on the transgressions of others that you must feed:
remember Christ the perfect baby.
I deride all that is plastic in my universe.
And it is only that hate-energy that allows me to feed
my suffering, my precious holy baby.
