The Verge

To taste before the seperation of parts,
annihilation of form-
in this am I consumed.
This useless desolation
implicates the early dawning conception
of lurid illusions of love.
Lurking in these luscious figures
a less quintessential nature lies;
the first descent is gentle-
the border of this hollow
picture lingers well around
pent up tension-
but the unsound sense
of active reception entices
furthur envelopement.
No inurement soothes the hurt
of burst ideals-
the reduction of friction
between culprit and victim
is found in identity
when over the plunging verge
the confessional crescendo
sings to retribution.
Constricted in the stigma of these straits
awaited the blade falls loaded
leadenly massive fisher for kings
pregnant with morbidly spiritual
ostentaion of penetrable
inviolability, a dentate asylum
of questionable sanctity.
Thus betrayed by a high
note, bitten by the rule of naïve hopes,
the essential force lost,
I prepare for long death.


poetry, poem, surreal, convolutionary, vagina dentata, castration anxiety, Freudian poem

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poem written by JASON PAUL FOX.
You MUST credit my authorship when reproducing this poem in any way!
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copyright 2007 Jason Paul Fox