Sticks and Stones

Chant Sang. Powys

Bacon loved a mush as much as any crevice —

the orifice becoming portal to a dark unknown.

He painted it as a terror — a howl of ecstasy too.

Animalistic in its gaping suspension and reeking of sex.

It fascinates me too — a gob.

But more for what comes out than slides in.

I see a delta for the rivers of thought that sinew from some mis-interpreted source — gathering pace as they rush towards the mouth,

speeding and forming into Hate as reason struggles to react — they gush through the gate, lowering their barbs and aiming true

they spew

they spew

and gush un-edited words out.

Then it is too late to stem the flow

To take them back,

To un-shout.