All right, in your face.
This poem is called "Coming".
[LAUGHS] You thought the unconfessed was horrifying,
this is an analysis.
"Coming is the body's way of weeping
after a series of shocks is suffered,
after the thrust of things, the gist of things,
becomes apparent.
The bolt is felt completely swollen in vicinity to wrench,
the skid is clearly headed toward an all-out insult,
and the senses one by one abandon all their stations
into smaller hours and thinner minutes, seconds split til'
pow.
You had it, had it coming, and it heaved, whose participle
wasn't heaven, that was that.
And when you got some senses back, you ask yourself,
is this a dignified being's way of being born?
What a thought somebody had, or some nobody, out
of the breathless blue, making us double up like this,
half gifted and half robbed.
Rise up to me, the spirit laughed.
I'm coming, I'm coming, the body sobbed.