Jul/Aug 2009 Poetry

The Incubus

by Lisa Mullenneaux

The Incubus

Sieving the richness of his daily reapings
he fastens boa to bicycle wheel, newsprint
to truncheon, handball to garbanzo can,
torn boxers to a California license plate
and with saliva mortar and Pinesol stokes
the color-trance of his junk's congruities,
pure in its impurity, marbled in commercial
afterthought, cast out, repulsed, denied.

Unleashing this beast from studio shadows
onto the gallery's oak-polished floor, he sees
a mutant soul, a gizmo, a thing new-hatched
with styrofoam penis, brown-bag wings,
tinfoil feet, and bottle-green snout, a dragnet
of rat drippings, sees it rise unsigned,
unheralded, an incubus among the philistines,
to belch its presence, to settle scores.


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