By Everett Bologna
Everyone says that sex is a God,
That love is a lord.
That happiness is the price of your body;
A slab of meat served at the table.
Everyone says that the body is the mind.
That the waves touch the shore once in the morning.
Once in the night. But nothing about the afternoon.
No one says anything about the afternoon
Because they’re too busy sleeping together.
Everyone is sleeping with everyone in the afternoon
They lay down in everyone’s beds and fuck lazily.
Because love is a God. Because sex is a lord.
Because the body owns the mind as its slave.
Because the mind is a cruel fate to possess,
So serve your body up instead of your head.
Let it be placed at the head of the table
And carved like a turkey. They say.
That’s the only way you’ll be happy.
Happiness is eating you.
Happiness is your body on the table and everyone
Digging in like starved dogs and seagulls.
Pulling your innards outer with slimy, uncoordinated fingers.
Greased with your cholesterol and shiny with your sweat.
Sex is a God. Not a kind lord. An uncaring God.
Everyone says that’s the price of love.
Everyone accepts the unloving God.
Everyone accepts devouring as the culmination of desire.
That depravity is cruel.
That love is a cruel master to which we are its slaves.
But be happy for a moment, won’t you?
Everyone will say.
Because Gods want offerings. Gods want peace.
Love wants piece too. A piece of your liver.
A piece of your neck. Of your heat.
Of your heart. Of your meat.
Sex is the desired devouring of God. Of a bad lord.
Autonomy is the deepest pit of Hell.
Better to serve yourself as dinner on a plate
Than be devoured by dogs in the streets.
Cause one way or another, that’s love. That’s what love is.
This is what love looks like everyone says
As they eat your innards like heat. Like love.
Like the love that only Gods provide.
Because there is no happiness in a world without God.
Sex is the kindest master fate has yet to meet.
Love is the cruelest bastard freezing in Hell.
But one day you’ll be more than meat.
One day you won’t eat your body on the table.
One day you’ll drink wine, and bake bread on a Sunday morning.
And you’ll look out at the coast and think about the waves,
And you’ll be able to tell how many times the waves touch the
shore in the afternoon.
