ECCE HOMO

If it is a man, he wants nothing more than to be recognized as something else.
If he has a stomach, it will not digest anything but blood.

Misery like twine wraps, hangs from, shuddering, his head.
Methinks the rub herein lies: not a strand of it touch him.
These lips, thin, almost even red, a sick foul wind enclose
Though no stink finds his nose.

If he takes a woman, it will be through force; or another man, the same.
He is conscious of the pain, but not receptive to its lashes and barbs.
Rather, he escapes unaffected and it invariably finds its target elsewhere.

Buds encrust his lips and bloom into thin spines at every kiss.
Decrepit as his hands are, they are capable and clawed.
His fingers, nets of acid sores, claim lives with every nervous tic.
To see him makes swine sick.

The arsenal of his experience includes worldwide abominations, too numerous to all be told.
There were parts of him dropped, leprous, off in China long ago.
His thorn tree, rife with hungry vines, sprouts to this day, rooted everywhere.
And he is there anytime pulpy flesh gives way to strong knots of hate or grief.

Damnation is he, wild and hurtful, gagging on his own saliva.
Cursed is he! And cursing all, his pointed tongue uncurls.
Laughing, shrieking, thrashing madly, violence is his whore!
Tiens! C'est Maldoror!