Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Gordon Massman, MISCELLARY


God is a Male Goat, image by Irene Koronas



XII.

God enters Gordon like convict woods after escaping
crashed transport bus. Gordon’s branches engulf him.
God wades bog, camouflages face with mud, eats
frog, bog weed. God needs gun, money, wheels; God
needs new mug. Gordon shelters under eggy moon,
Gordon accommodates. God blackens self under
brambles. Cops track with dogs. God’s handcuffs cut
wrists. Damn things. God self-castigates: idiot, block-
head, blunderer. Gordon wraps night round God
like raw bacon. Hyper-vigilantly God sleeps, dreams
of Camp Winnipesaukee. God fantasizes Sylvester
Stallone. Blood shatters out Gordon’s ears from
God’s inhabitance. Acid flames throat. God feels to
Gordon like male goat. Damn it all. God’s dirty. God
spits grit. God defecates magma. God’s blood
impregnates mosquitoes. Gordon prays, “Stop this
pain, help me giggle.” Gordon screeches like tea
kettle. Fugitive! Fugitive! Murderer! God penetrates
Gordon’s pelvic swamp—bladderwort, skunk cabbage,
moccasin. David Livingston. God curls under pitch
pine, chews chick-weed root. Dozes. Authorities rake
purling mass but God slips through. Three years pass.
Rubble crushes Haitian babies. Indonesia boils in
tsunami stew. Sludge fills Peruvian schools. Gordon’s
mother’s flesh rots. Gordon abstracts. God thickens.



XXXIV.

God said let there be darkness and there was darkness.
Light is world’s original state. God split light with
sin for He was bored. He needed peep show to
grease masturbation. Adam, Eve numbed him with
tepidness. And so He created shame, naughtiness,
exhibitionism, addiction. Dripping spit. Pro-
nounced it right. Now delicious videos. Hot
XXX. Eve didn’t give head. God hired world’s
top hit man, half in advance, half on delivery,
who wound about trunk hissing cost-benefit.
Adventuresome, Eve bit. God drooled watching
shame-mixed sex, rubbed hands. God said less
light, more dark--lab mouse hitting bar--and
darkness fell like black crepe wherein sin—war,
rape, slavery, bacchanal—shot through world
like bloody thread. God slobbered, ate crazy
corn. Light like weed peeps through concrete,
God shoots it with Round-up. Let there be dark
and it was delicious with sex-laced violence,
spree killing,  delectable AIDS, provocative
starvation. God’s biggest hard-on is witnessing
still births: meaningless labor. You can’t blame
owner of such efficient ax for splitting tedium
in half, light cleaved open. One loves spilled
viscera. Whose apogee is soldiers gang raping,
murdering girls before their mothers, then
slaughtering the mothers. This for God is a binge.

XLI.

I make love to God, unnatural for me as I am not
homosexual. I do this as pilgrimage though other
men’s erections repel me and God’s is especially
clammy, brutal, like wet lead bludgeon protruding
from barbs. I suck it like supplicant, he bloodies
my anus, relishing. I am made female debased by
King for initiation into cult. Henceforth I shall    
plead in squeamish architecture oval-mouthed,
cradling hymnal, and bend over naked to his will.


LI.


…and this little god cried wee wee wee wee all the way home
which is unusual, for gods seldom scream home afraid
to mommy being immortal, omnipotent, impervious
to pain, imagine Zeus sucking thumb, clinging to mother’s
apron under bully-pursuit. Imagine Neptune in water
wings. But chill climbed little god at something unspeakably
evil escaped from pit, red skinless muscle and gut joined
by enzyme-shiny fangs. This little god full of cock girded
for fight but caved bloodless like any coward at implacable
dominance. This thing can strip you off bones like sleeve
of meat discarding pile of steaming guts, so wee wee wee, god’s
springy piggy tail corkscrewed up asshole as he flees. Mom,
cookie-warm, wields rolling pin like club, don’t fuck with
this, slapping cudgel in hand, nasty piss-ant, crack you
like tick. Piss-ant pops tollhouse, pops mommy’s head
between jaws, brains running out like burst egg, slashes
to neck her cunt, sticks head inside, gnashes guts, spits
out ribs. God unshelled nakedly stands—little chubby
package—and is gone in an instant but for chewed
gristle. The other four, like toes: the walls look like
tomato puree blender disaster…

LVII.

God shields, exclaims soldier of salvation, flashing Him
like firewall before mortality. Mortality shrivels before God
like ancient penis. Death devours flesh, not soul. Flesh is empty
meal for stomach, deepening, not satiating hunger, like
Cheetos. One soul would bloat Death like fire hose gush
down throat. I own Wyatt Earp Sheriff badge, Elite
Black Visa Card, BJ’s Warehouse membership, valid car
inspection sticker but defenseless lies my soul—naked
infantryman. I am without armor against bullet. Faith,
he says, is your shield. God intercedes like Kevlar.
Open eyes, heart, be saved. I shut lids, epoxy heart,
cover self with spite, throw myself from prow into sea
of denunciation, plummet into watery abyss. Death
tears off my flesh. What shark leaves pipefish eat,
plankton devour fiber off bones. I am cloud of
underwater feast. Faith repulses beast from breast.
Have you been saved? “Yes, oh yes!” cry billions.

LIX.

One proves God’s existence by citing the stinking garbage
Dumps of Lagos, Nigeria; Fresh Kills, NY; Bordo Poniente,
Mexico, Great Pacific Garbage Patch, Pacific Ocean.
Mountains of teeming human blight: humankind’s
temples riddled with scavengers, bulldozed into mounds
thick as Pyramids. Here lies altar, chancel, transept,
sacristy, Eucharist, scepter, wriggling masses. Pilgrimage
of diesel engines belching black repentant fume like
thunderous guilt, depositing spermy blankets, bloody
towels, expelled placentas, vomiting couches, frizzy wigs.
Priests preside these cresting seas. God forgives. God
absolves. Come unto Me. Dogs shit upon these Pews,
gulls pull coagulated fat. This our ark. This our craft.
Board it now wretched sinners. Here lie rotten ratty
pants, here loafers stiff as husks, here’s plastic sucked
by lips. No greater proof than this. Let us, then, gather
round these sewers, shiver humbly, and worship God.

LXI.

God says, pass, you lived admirably--
loved, forgave, prayed, sacrificed.
Then God says to another, you, back
off! You’re condemned. You cheated,
raged,  strutted, begrudged. You shall
blister. The consigned one pleads
on deaf cochlea. Trap door bangs.
He plummets to pit of wailing skulls,
boiling flesh, bubbling cauldron
within which sinners eternally
scream. Like fuel, new sinners slide
down shoot. Satan resembles  Mr.
Kurtz. Mad, utterly, heads on
pikes. Meanwhile he who passed
gorges divinity, virgins, beefcakes,
girls. Satan bathes in bone
liquefaction. Bartholomew washes
believers’ feet. I, Jew, decide to
marry Jesus in formal ritual:
Baptism. Transubstantiation.
Rapture. Reinvention. This I
saw in Ezekiel-like vision: angels
floating round Virgin Mary levitating
above floor of crawling adders.
God said come. I approached.
She bore two faces: one anterior
angelic, beatific, one posterior
grotesque, evil. God commanded
kiss her evil face, kiss Mary’s
monstrous ego, kiss her
festering oozing sore. Love her,
he demanded. Suddenly charioteer
lopped off my head, tossed it to
God who jamming digits into
jellies, gullet, with my ropy
member naked, flopping bowled
me over with my own globe into
whose mouth involuntarily I
shat again and again in liquid
terror. Upon awaking I married
God in formal ceremony and
ever after worshipped the
filthy, repulsive, and abominable.

LXX.

I was faring swimmingly—woman hair-washed
feet, infirm glowed, deceased rose, food-fish
teemed in nets, throngs converted--without
you. You couldn’t leave it alone, stuffing me
with pudding, over-gloating, pumping with gift-
bearers. I was satisfied, functioning. I didn’t
need your head stuck in my details. Predictably
you snuffed my happiness, bribed friend to
rat me out, mortified flesh, nailed me shut
under mocking sign: “King of Jews.” (Why
through wrists and not, sadistically, balls
or tits; you always resented me.) Such splendid
revenge, subsuming me eternally under your
fluff, suffocating me. Granted my swollen
egotism, but needed you lance my lava
out? Couldn’t you allow actualization? I was
superb physician, I abated suffering. Selfless,
always selfless, liberator against autocracies.
And you, hateful to the last, stripped my
thunder to bloody bone, stuck me in crib
somewhere near Microscopium. Baby, even
now, into whom you ply universal infantilism.

LXXI.

Men, grease painted, kill each other.
Head, necks thick black streaks. Gangs
Clasping signed, countersigned contracts.
Lone assassins crisscrossing streets.
Rage-fuelled hatred, cartridge, barrel,
Throat-slitting shiv. Rapists, too,
Neck-dragging women by belt behind
Dumpster for spasm. Snow, horse,
Four Roses. Gaudy iridescent tattoos.
One shatters whiskey bottle, twists
In girl’s cheek. One crooks fingers,
Rips open victim’s mouth. Churches
Groan with prayer. Belfry traps flapping
Hymns. Futility of humble. Innocent
Billfolds split like figs to gun-thugs.
Poet’s final vision: moron’s pistol
Muzzle. Nothingness. Psychopathic
God lays out with porn, Astroglide,
Levitating over ant bed creation.
Teeming thoraxes, mandibles, legs,
Dragging line of microscopic dung.
Starry God, internet smut, spasm.
Humanitarians mail charity flyers:
Starving children, harelip defect,
Diseases. Goats for family. Donkeys
for drudge. Nobody gives. Death.
God swallows petitions like sludge.


—Gordon Massman



2 comments:

  1. biblical dear gordon i saw job today he was on his knees scraping dirt off the cement. what am i to do. i can't get job to stop sweeping. love your long poem

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  2. dear gordon after i read your poem i wrote to emily. she says-if she-eats another donut or reads anymore of your poems she'll die of envy

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