Musculature of the Corpse Spleen

These, judge, are the crimes
for which I stand before you in this
the finest of april foolishness:
I nutted on that man's eye!
Too proud was he to stand and die
his member a member of plantains and bananas!
Fried stack of it in my grasp
the mushroom nipple pink as dawn!
Why, judge, that morning I awoke
on the lawn of the museum, teasing him!
Your son took pictures and moaned with his flimsy.
The best conversers
make love when they talk; they squeak
when they squeal and mean what they say.
Your son nursed the sewers of any who'd take him;
he was a donkey, a bride, a chef, and a body.
Milking the holstein, he said to me:
my father, he taught me! He taught me best on the chest
made of oak and lavender--or was it lathered
with the soak of my thighs, my hips; my face
locked into a rhyme of a coven, screwed shut,
I taught him, I taught him how to judge with closed eyes!
Judge how judges a leather sofa when too many
brothers and sisters rut on the sunny day when he
watches, regards the fraternal internals.
Who's speaking now, the hermaphrodite pet
or Baudelaire's journals? Judge, judge,
believe me--I was gentle. As gentle as butter, as gentle as love
and wily as the gutters.

What is it they say about homosexuals and kneeling? Wonder if the judge has a bum knee.

Who strangled their nerves?
The judge, with verve, with verve!


~ by Jeremy on October 11, 2008.

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