All in the Head

He likes it when he’s swallowed, swallowed down

Inside, the way that Shakespeare puts his mind

Beyond himself to be the beer-drunk clown,

Or be the witch-fooled king, or be as blind

As Queen Macbeth in madness.  Poets need

This swallowing, their gulpings of the world,

Their gulping of the universe’s seed

To grow to lines as evil as that swirled

Around and in the poet’s guts.  The quaffs

Are mutual, the cosmos drinking him

And being gulped, his lines’ resulting coughs,

A mixed angelic and unholy hymn.

  He likes it mutual, both side by side,

     Each gulping in cooperation’s slide.

~ Phillip Whidden