My Waking Thought Poem by Rowan Welch

My waking thought, a joyful thought-
No, a sad thought, I hold, but naught.
Nevermore; evermore, the soft gentle noise-
From deafening screeches of poise,
And poison knives to the brain
An everlasting fargo, whispered unto the mane,
Which in turn speaks to the draft,
And antagonizes another shaft-
Who is stroked and wrestled-
Into submission it’s flaccid and fessled-
To a form of gnostic explosion.

A love, what love, passed on from a dove,
Like petals floating, and conscious cloves-
Spanking their mothers,
And dragging their lovers,
Or... dragging their mothers,
And spanking their lovers-
With wetness, water, lubricant:
Another reminder of his impending mortal excrement,
Becoming, himself, one among dung, and flowers.
Happy with his existence.