Ants run through my veins,
dancing,
dancing to drumming rhythms with spears in hands
My stomach crawls with worms wearing crowns
My brain is made of spiders,
the skull a web of flashing lights
My bones are hyenas dying of laughter
Centipedes and beetles and grasshoppers for fingernails
all singing in tune out of unison
Flashes of lightning for hair I comb my hair with leeches
My skin is rotted and turned to moss
My flesh all maggots wielding knives and bottles of gin
My eyes burn like volcanoes and cradle smiling poisonous reptiles
My lips are made of the Lord of Flies' wings
My tongue was ripped out then placed in a desert and grew into a temple
When I get up I walk,
and when I walk I dance,
and when I dance I do so oddly to the sound of drums made of solid air
My palms,
the lines in the palms of my hands are made of little rattling snakes
There's nothing left of my nose but two endless pits
and my ears are made of two dragonflies who cast spells
of Foul magic and sense gold when it's near
My joints are made of white roaches
My penis an erect hornet's nest
Testicles cities destroyed by water or fire or wind for their
mastery of disobedience
My voice the buzzing of insects,
the rape of children,
the whoring of moonlight sunlight illumination,
the gurgling laughter of creatures of the deep in
an ocean of blood -
my voice is in these.
My voice is in the silence after the defeat of the last hope
and the deletion of their unborn progeny.
My soul is slime and smells through the dimensions,
peels the color right off of anything of solid matter.
My spirit is one with the universe and will be here again.
William Jackson was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. He has given readings around L.A. at places like The Goethe Institute, Lili Bernard's studio in Chinatown, and Lawrence Asher Gallery. He has been published in Gambling the Aisle, Papercuts (forthcoming), and RipRap Magazine (forthcoming). He enjoys cold sake and long walks on the fire.
