Grave Piss Manifesto
Let me reiterate my repugnance
& reify the ashen body so I might piss on it in its entirety.
Dead dad died & all I got was this lousy imaginary eulogy.
Dead dad died from diner food & damnit
I want the heart heredity that doesn’t risk giving out
in the heat of the night
jammed past the hilt.
Hearts should be bloody
& hearts should
& hearts should explode
& when incapable of taking in
the birdsong of ambient affections
blockages become prevailing wind.
& I like to sunbathe in the puddles formed.
Sewerage is my favorite suntan lotion.
Daddy slathered hatred hightails it for the heavens when I try to attract it.
Daddy escapes atonement & speaking of skeletons
I can’t find a speck of soul to interrogate
nor an inkling of remorse to extend to projector
when he’s all ground to powder
& it doesn’t even taste good enough to season steak with.
I’m so hungry I could eat disparagement
& call it enough calories to get through the day.
In my moment of duress at the news of Dad’s eternal rest
I had nothing to do but laugh & get undressed.
Philharmonic harmonizing & the invisible din thud squeal
& the imaginings of mourning that must’ve been farcical
with snotty tissues balled up & volleyed
off a coffin I’m disinvited from viewing
despite my disinterest
& my morbid commitment to dignity.
I want dick for breakfast & dick for lunch & dick for dinner.
So much dick that clouds part
& on my knees blessings resounding & Gabriel’s horns screeching
Levi’s unzipping appear as fortuitous angels in the sky.
I look up & Dad’s whinging
Never forget. The heathen bull
does not fuck other bulls. Balls shouldn’t smack balls.
The earth trips off its axis in the presence of filth.
CJ Waterman is a writer living in Providence, RI. He holds a degree in literary arts from Brown University and an MFA in Poetry from Notre Dame. Other poems appear in Smoking Gluegun, Tarpaulin Sky, Similar Peaks and elsewhere. He is currently at work on a novel.
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