“I miss creamed corn” said the man-eater
Half-way through his transformation, his muzzle
Flecked with type O, high triglycerides, HIV negative
“The simple pleasures of life in the age of what-do-you-call-it?
Discus?” “Disco” said mummy. “The word you’re thinking of is “disco”. “Not discus?”
“No. Discus is something entirely different. It’s an ancient Greek sport.”
The mummy tried to enjoy the failure of communication as an oblique sport
Imagined by an aged hippie on the nod. “Man! Eater
Beats Feeder. Two to 1! Game! Well-played!” Discus
It among yourselves. What a pedantic Pharaoh I am. I’d like to muzzle
My urge to make it all ineffable, but I can’t. Poor me! “What do you call it,
Lover, when nothing means anything anymore?” “I call it being overly negative.”
Said the werewolf. “As I get older what’s most important to me is etched in negative
space. Absence of pain. Lack of loneliness” said the dessicated Pharaoh.” “And what was the sport
Of kings? Tennis?” “Horse-racing.” “What?” “Do you call it
Love if it tears you apart?” “No werewolf. that girl was a wolfman-eater!
You’re well rid of her” said mummy. “Nuh-uh!” “Uh-huh!” On his muzzle
Yes and no were written in fire and spun and spun like a discus.
Before too long they ordered a pizza. Each discus
Of pepperoni bore health consequences read in the blood that were measurable and negative.
After he died the priest removed mummy’s brain through his muzzle
And kept his ka alive through magic. But his brain was a mutation, a sport
It didn’t die but kept vexing him from the sidelights throughout his immortality. Man, eater,
God, feeder, soul, food. Psyche? Conscience? Ka? What do you call it
When the name of the soul isn’t a part of it? What do you call it
When the soul has parts that bear no name at all? When it spins and plays a movie, like a laser-discus?”
“I miss those too!” said the wolfman. “Wasting time — that’s the real man-eater.
Somebody said there’s a path beyond that pulsation — negative positive positive negative
Then the animal in me consumes the man and laughs to see such sport.
And the dish ran away and so on.” Looking into a gun. Into the muzzle.
I remember the flash of light from the muzzle
At the moment of my –what do you call it?
death, friend. For the gods it’s sport.
The bleeding warrior, the athlete in agony, about to release his discus
The husband, the mother, the virgin, the negative
pole of the magnet — the other one’s the man-eater.
The worm ouroboros rose up from the sea,and, pointing its muzzle. at the man, eater
of time, it asked “What do you call it when the world ends? I call it negative
Charge, the sport of Shiva, flinging his immortal deadly discus.”