Nursery Meat


Daily I press hands, oh butchered ones,
burnt and inch-thick to my face and blue,
if ocher came in bruise my cheek the cave would show a hue just,
really it just fades, young once,
the undead outside the curtains scatter in the sunset
and fade the curtains when later,
in a caul of mucus I give to the other mouth
I sneeze that last tatter
on the carpet and like a child I pick it up off the floor,
my soul in my hands and the mort flesh bears writing.
Write your name here in tears and make your child again
And your crumpled nursery rhyme belongs in your nose
With the rest of the children, don't dead things do better
Poetry than the weary foolhardy money things we don't
Ask for much more than an elegy and nuh cry
When our tongues forget kneeslapping wit we just
Go on and on awkwardly a champion of the bluesy,
Body fluid, spinal fluid, dwarf browless boys of ruin it's just
A good trail the litter of my children now replace me in the dirt,
I don't trust you enough to tell you shit dries and gets better
With age, and is that wine dribbling from your nose and eyes
Or is that too clear a condiment on the body of christ and lazarus?
I tell you, you conduits are hazardous.

I may consider adding “My name is Paul and I tell you,” at the end. Yeah, fuck it, y’know.

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~ by Jeremy on July 13, 2008.

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