“And the Fever is Conquered at last,” Poe
proclaimed. Fevered bruise spreading; a blossom
cracking with canker, with necrotic glow.
Where’s the Divine in rot? It’s the problem
with a poet who ignores the mundane ––
After the membrane burst, flushed brackish wine
spewed from your leg; and, with each squeeze to drain
the blotch, rank sludge glooped out. If the Divine
rests in our soul then it’s in our corrupt
flesh as well. Poe’s Conqueror Worm knew that.
Fetid phantasma. Blight’s phosphorescent
twin. Ode to Gangrene? Cut it out. Worship
the flesh warily. See? What will erupt
in me hunkers and waits with a vile scent.
Apparently Youtube is awash in videos featuring blighters suffering from subcutaneous hematoma in one form or another, something that I find I cannot turn away from once I hit “play.” I know, I know, “fetid phantasma,” is such a $20 phrase in a $5 sentence but it’s so much fun to say. It’s like the word, “glooped;” sure, I can use other words to describe decay but my world would be slightly duller without some good gloop in it.