Hygiene Dreams

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


Poetry

Submitted: March 21, 2018

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Submitted: March 21, 2018

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HYGIENE DREAMS

By A. Guinevere Kern

Copyright A. Guinevere Kern

7/2002~ "Ever strive to be the best"

~Alexander The Great

 

I prefer the pristine quality of dreams,

Untainted as they are by living filth,

And the invasive burden of the five senses.

Although even dreams are chaos-corrupted,

And a bit unruly in the narrative.

I, Hygiene, lament the loss of gods and angels, 

Nothing but entropy abiding since The Fall.

Still, the tidy leaf was a nice addition.

I suppose one can always edit and grind clean,

Refine a vision until it's blank as a margin

In a genteel book on Saints burned to Perfection.

Keep close the sweet, wet promise of the razor,

Adore the crucible where crude faults are seared.

There is a certain violence in creating the Ideal.

Both a concept and a standard of Man's mind, 

Genderless I am, worm-white and feature free,

I want nothing to do with sex or genitalia,

The very thought of probing and poking appalls me.

I don't want to be invaded. Slick tongue in my mouth?

Inserted fingers, props, the unstoppable phallus?

You must be kidding.

I am Bald, without scent, no damp cavities

To harbor reek, or germ or rank secretions.

No pore to exude or absorb, no internal

Processes gurgling, squirting, pumping,

No navel storing up lint. I wait

For my Kingdom to arrive, an irrigated territory,

Vestal, sanitary and spared of ghastly Man.

How Hygiene hates the human being,

The Biological Beast. His stinking breath and pits, 

His guts' decay. The unruly veins, the hairy pelt.

Offal, ear wax, blood, spit, tears, phlegm

Snot and spunk, toe jam and gall.

Is there nothing in him not victim

To the ruinous effects of passing time?

The moments tick off his remaining breaths, 

He spoils as a consequence of breathing.

I hate the rhythm. 

There's something clean and proper

About dial tones, absent of noisy voices, therefore:

Suction the music from the score, 

In fact, All the planet should be beaten pure.

The dust from soil, the oil-slicked sea,

Abort the havoc of storms and the rude untidiness

Of the pyroclastic flow. Shake out the moon, 

Lance the boiling Sun, scrape all bark from trees, 

Ablate the polluted rain, but spare the ice.

And I don't favor the litter leftover from Novas,

Or all that space junk orbiting our Rock.

There's something so florid about torrid.

Man's howling passion, the liquid insistence

Of his pulse, the ruthless shedding of his DNA,

Firing his genes about like sequenced bullets.

Shedding his skin scales, eating, excreting, leaking,

A clumsy attempt at periodic resurrection.

Stable zen excellence escapes him.

He ruts without the slightest trace of grace.

Man needs Borax, Acid, Lemon-scented Discipline

Ammonia, Bleach, Petroleum - Steel Wool

To buff his brains, and gleam his putrid soul.

Scissors, Knives: essential elements for meat.

Those useless utensils meant to purify:

Toothbrush, nail clippers, brush and comb, 

Shampoo and cotton balls, enemas, Q-tips

Powder, perfume, shaver and soap.

It's all a waste of time, I tell you.

A sterile, faultless exterior is what he needs.

A banishment of dark, gamy crevices and creases, 

Fertile with dirty growth, ripe with effluvium.

Cockroaches, rot, Vultures, dung beetles, the clean-up crew,

Just cannot get the work done properly at all.

Man still reeks to his last molecule.

He ought to take steel tweezers and pluck out every hair

Use the pumice stone to bare clean bone, 

Crack the mirror, carve out every sloshing organ,

Starch his corrupted spirit, Polish his lame Virtue, 

Man needs improvement from his scalp to his soul. 

Else he can never approach me, though he try.

Why can't Man live up to my decree?

He rattles about the earth as though I am not here,

The half-hearted attempts at achieving Clean,

Won't do him the least good. If none comply, 

Or do me homage, What is my purpose?

An agony it is, to watch the foul decline,

Surrounded by the unkempt, the unchaste,

Even those who swear to me Devotion,

Are apostates. I can sense their insincerity.

Nothing left but to merge with my bright dreams.

Annulled, like other abandoned entities:

Zeus, Ra, Haints, jackal-headed dogs, 

Roaring Marduk, Sweet Athena, Experimenting Enki,

No one even believes in the Vampire anymore.

At least within my nightly realm of headsong,

I create a place where even I belong.

For the power that Man giveth his gods

He also taketh away. Selah.

Pass me my razor.


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