Dream Of God As A Sea Monster Poem by Marc Mannheimer

This, from a dream I had as a child:





Please,
swallow me whole;
don’t chew me up
into little,
nerve-ended pieces, parts, pickin’s.
I would then have to sift through packages
of legs, arms,
innards, heart,
of grotesque and plump members
to put myself back together.

Your sharp, Infinite teeth, would grope for
gaping wound, open door
to every swoon over shock of pain
I deplore, insane,
your craving heart at no cross-purpose,
slobbering over morsels,
munch, crunch, *cough*,
spit, +spew+, slaver,
hungry, loving God.

Swallow me whole,
please,
the phantasmagoria of life’s
incessant digestion,
a bane to my soft-covering,
self-mothering, human,
hypocritical, selfish, wanting,
own-self, daunting;
I trip over shoelaces
I refuse to tie,
identity, self, distinctive I.

If you grant my wishes,
the stomach acid
may just kill me
on contact,
if I’m very, very
lucky.