Subsequently

Was a rounded pendulum swung,
dangling from the air,
springing downward
from an angry clock-face?

Was it like Cronos’ stretched and aching member,
invisible to my puny,
penis-avoiding eyes,
on the day I died?

This cretin,
crawling swollen from my belly,
birthed like slow-motion vomit from my innards
upon this floating cloud which he and I share for eternity,
told me it did.

I gaze down from this spiral-spinning distance
at a brown earth still peopled
with giant babies.

I feel the clock still clicking on,
even after my death.

My gross companion here delivers a proverb:
“Does the sob-sticking wretch,
unrepentant and sticking to the ceiling,
deserve salvation?”


I realize that this creature is my conscience.
His odor, like my own aging stench,
is the odor of the damned.