The Scavenger’s Sacrament: A Libido of the Mud

The soil is a mouth, a thick, sobbing blackness

where the soul nourished was a heavy, rusted gear

grinding my marrow into a fine, grey soot.

I am the man who dug his own tunnel,

not with a silver spade, but with the raw, bleeding nails

of a soul that refused to be its own coffin.

​O, the damp geography of the gut!

The words crawl like beetles under the tongue

soul nourished, soul nourished, soul nourished

but I have turned the light of a fierce, dark sun

upon the archaeology of my own wreckage.

I am the architect of the cellar,

mapping the rot until it begins to glow

with the bioluminescent hum of a life reclaimed.

​Then came the green explosion, the heavy, resinous milk,

and the mushroom, that silent, subterranean contractor.

Psilocybin: the solvent that melts the ego’s cold granite

until the monster is just a sequence of wounded codes,

a tangle of nerves waiting for the rain.

Cannabis: the velvet salience that quiets the amygdala’s scream

so I may touch the soul nourished with the steady hand

of a man who has finally befriended his own shadow.

​Forgiveness is not a thin, pale word—

it is a phallic, muscular thrust into the void!

It is the radical, bloody acceptance of the dirt

turned into the perfume of the new-born rose.

The astrocytes are conducting a symphony of fire,

clearing the metabolic waste of a thousand shames

with the precision of a star-shaped blade.

​I have built the scaffold from the charred wood of my own burning.

I am standing in the center of the dark,

naked,

unashamed,

vibrating with the savage,

botanical grace of

the tunnel

that finally broke

through to

the sea.