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MY NEPHEW AND THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS
It usually begins with a sound
not unlike the grinding of gears
within the womb, pushing,
pushing against walls of
blood. But when
the child finally cries
the sound comes out
backwards
at the wrong speed.
Each night
my ten year old nephew
surrenders to this
sonic landscape,
lies in his bed
under army fatigue green
with wet cool cloth stretched
over his eyes as the record
spins and spins and spins,
and by the time the drums
roll in, trip-hammer rhythms
that race like a heart
hungering for orgasm
or death,
my nephew is asleep.
I’ve often wondered
why exactly he does this.
My nephew says
the sound speaks pictures
to him, makes him think of
insects sucking nectar,
pipelines of steel pumping
thick black waste,
of being trapped
and alone
in this house
where he lives,
a mother’s embrace,
an untrue accusation,
a revelation with the
voice of a church organ
on Resurrection Sunday.
•
Boston, 1989
2 Comments
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… uh who is dumb enough to put their hand in a meat grinder
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