The Flesh: a Deposition
A traitor am I? Then you're another.
All those nights of steady inconspicuous
Consumption, the days inert--
Weren't they a treason on a par with mine?
Did you do nothing to deserve
The clogged pipes, the clotted ducts,
The fatty deposits, the blackouts when
You became visibly imbecile? Don't blame
The body you used like some dumb donkey
To lug the great sack of your self
From one trough to the next.
In another day and age, you know, I'd be
The one in charge -- you would go to a temple
To adore me, respendent, cast in bronze
With emerald eyes and ivory robes
And that archaic smirk that gods
And movie stars have in common. You think --
And that makes you something special?
You are nothing but the sum of all
Your expectorations. You make me sick.
-- Tom Disch (1939-2008)
February 12, 2008