The Second Noble Truth

It is a very urgent radiating itch
Somewhere at the right of my back
Reached finally by my finger’s tacks

It is the aroma of brewed coffee
And sizzling bacon in the morning-
My own faint whiff of nicotine

It is a self conspiracy suddenly becoming likely
In this tiny, dingy, sorry excuse for a room
Abandoned by light, temporarily and hastily

It is the matador’s searing scarlet standard
And I am the raging toro in the corrida
Without the crowd and the raucous fiesta

It is using a bat’s echolocation
While my shaky sweaty palms open the files
Cautiously hidden in the nooks of my hard drive

It is a violent crunch-time grasping and pumping
Lasting until about half of the sand
In my nephew’s Boogle clock has fallen

It is being a mongrel in face and tongue
Not at the sight of left-overs or bones
But at fake paired peaks and sacred zones

It is the gentle unexpected eruption
Followed by spasmodic and muffled moans
And the pong of mayonnaise mildly rotten

It is the futile wiping off of viscous
On this yellow comforter for the nth occasion
While failing to hide from my own sullied reflection

by A. G. Bawang

Other poems of BAWANG (35)

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