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INFANTISMAL . . . INPHANTASMAL. . . INFERNITATIS.

Eye-Boar

 (n.) Small parasitic beetle that burrows into the ocular cavity
 of sleeping mammals, leaving its eggs tangled in gelatinous strips
 among the optic nerves.






	I bore the marks
	Of the infernal encyclopedia,
	Of the literature of scars
	And the history of bad ideas.

	I bore the barreness of body,
	I bore mine enemy 
	In the skin that was left
	For me by my father
	And my mother as well.	
		Why can I not dress myself?



	The eye bares the essence
	And the body hangs from both.
	The broken skin, 
	The marks of intrusive pleasures.


	It was the eye
	Bore the marks until the get gone.
	The eyeboar, the lice that drip from eyebrows,
	The supercilious infestations that burrow down 	
	Into the eyes themselves, giving to the victims
	Derangement and visions.

	And so I bare the intelligence
	That is alien to my body.

	And I invite you to bare with me,
	Under the naked strobe of language,
	Under white moon's severed circle,
	Under wide and staring faces.




        I bore also the call of the common cockroach,
        and I knew an eye-boar to see it, even with my
        eyes closed, and I felt the sting of probosci
        salivating dreams into my eyes.


	And so I bore the marks, the scars that stand apart and salute 
	A distant spark grown bloated and  burning without mercy.
	I bore the marks of  something
	Next to nothing
	And closely akin
	To nobody at all.
	I sit quietly next to nothing
	And I slowly drain away
	Before my very eyes.




	I bore the marks of Faux Umbral, 
		      who was my master,
	and whom I fellated beneath his vast black cloak
	during midnight mass.  I was of the nightgaunt tribe,
	and felt the power of fucking under drunk eyes in a
	corner booth in the city's every bar.


	And here I bare for you
		The eye of nightmare,
	Sudden flaring up, in flames the flesh trap,
	Igniting in freedom of space
	Beneath my mother's watchful eye,
	Eyes of images that watch me watching them.
	Finally, the eye now bores the scars themselves.

	Over the signs
	He bore the eye
	For the urge in him
	Was dead at last.


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