Life Cycle of the Himalayan Love Mouse

It dies, of course.  A short time after birth.

Soft warmth, quick-flickering on the frosty earth!

There, wrinkled purple ridges fill their folds

With snow.  Each trough a billion corpses holds.

They're mousie meatballs, morsels turned to ice,

That were once slaves of Eros, Cupid's mice.

Wee hearts that throb one transitory hour!

Genitals wee-er still!  Rude time's appalling power!

Born in a squirming burst in slippery straw

Beneath a lama's hut, a mouse will gnaw

The candies offered at dark Buddha's feet,

Then look for Mom.  Your father's on the street,

Eying the hookers, high on dreams of crack,

A whiskered villain, humping, piggyback,

Whatever is hot with hormonal perfume.

Returning to darkness, to the Great Madam's womb.

Your mother's in heat.  From her hole leaks some squeaking.

The warm straw is reeking, the mouselet is peeking:

Sees cherry butts all piggy-pink and shivering,

Buttercup cheeks, and quick tails coiled and quivering.

The gong for meditation's moaning above,

But Mom is not handing out motherly love.

The glacier's wintry heart beats once a year.

Its blue eye winks.  Slow shadow spreading fear.

The neglected children turn, of course, to crime,

Molest each other, just to pass the time.

Some starve in garrets, ache for the Muse's kiss;

Some chew their balls off, live in celibate bliss;

But many spend their time in sexual play

And gather rosebuds all the short, cold day.

They die, as we do, shortly after birth.

Vv 04-15-2000