2 April 2014

Thomas Thistlewood and Tom, a poem by Pamela Mordecai

Shit in my mouth. He makes my woman put
her bottom in my face and push her doo-
doo in between my lips. When she stops he
says, “More! You black bitch, more! Shove it out till
it bung a clog inside his throat or I
will strip your back until it makes
a bleeding pair with his.” I watch her ass:
shit flecks clung to the petals in that tight
chrysanthemum come to my mouth again.
I tell myself: “So many days I dig the soft
ground of her front, water it, plant my seed.
Watch it breed in her belly. If one day
I have to eat the stinking fruit it voids to live,
see my mouth here. Come. Fill it with her excrement.”

My name is Tom. It is this fiend’s as well.
He is no person, nor no man, nor common visitor
from hell. When evil folded tight inside
its shell so that sky waters would not wash
it clean, and hid, and aged, fermenting, made
a beard, a mouth, and hands and feet and spleen,
the need to work woe on a human being,
it was hatching this snake. He sleeps
to dream the vilest cruelty and wakes
to undertake it. Devilry is his invention.
I cannot fight rapine and pillage, violence
past thought, hate simmered to its essence. I
can love even to eating my love’s shit.
No yellowbelly demon unmans me. Watch me do it.



Read "Thomas Thistlewood and Tom" in French here
Pam on the Canopic platform: Featured Voice
This poem is from her book Subversive Sonnets

Pamela Mordecai



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