I, the pentadactyl

Look at these outlets of flesh,
Each a port to ships,
bearing Midas’s touch, and duplicates of Ozymandias,
king of kings.
Each laden with pearls,
with skins so white, and hair so bright,
drugged proofs, of empires’ deaths.
Each vessel
steered to the command
of half blind, limping commanders.

Look at these phallic jokes.
Holding objects,
even more abject and lewd.
Each finger probing inside, nearing the gut,
raping the shame,
tearing the guilt, of virgin life.
Each finger, digging deeper in an ubiquitous race.
The sacrifice of white clad, unsullied brides,
because the hand
could not contain its onus.

Look at these, ten of these
instruments of kill.
Look at these vultures to a world of Prometheus,
these Titans to a world of Zeus.
Look at these, and then bring your ears
closer to their lips of finger nails
hear their words,
and know that these fingers,
are not willing harbors to pestilent mites,
nor form consious part of my body.