Words Heard, By Accident, Over The Phone

O mud, mud, how fluid! —-

Thick as foreign coffee, and with a sluggy pulse.

Speak, speak! Who is it?

It is the bowel-pulse, lover of digestibles.

It is he who has achieved these syllables.

What are these words, these words?

They are plopping like mud.

O god, how shall I ever clean the phone table?

They are pressing out of the many-holed earpiece, they are looking for a

listener.

Is he here?

Now the room is ahiss. The instrument

Withdraws its tentacle.

But the spawn percolate in my heart. They are fertile.

Muck funnel, muck funnel —

You are too big. They must take you back!