My Cob Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

She took my cob,
an ear she called it,
the kernels stood,
in solidarity
to their own rooots,
a-maize of thoughts
dripped to the cloth
and stuck to wings
of pushy flies,
oh, what a way
they sang in unison,
what ride, we are to die!
Wet lubricates the uvula,
Hyaluronidase,
and agile liposomes,
fresh from the crater's mouth
cling to the adenoids
before the dreaded fall
into unknown abyss,
(esophagus relax)
no new experience,
globus hystericus
but soothing are
those hands, caressing
pigment spots,
where tiny towers rise
to say their prayers
and give thanks to Gods
whose frank benevolence
was only lust and
the philosophy of the voyeur.