Pondering her squinted-up boy

Ended up turning into a recurring suicide shit. Seems reading an article on grief is more influential than an old lesbian-whore’s last words. Still, the reliance on sounds is getting a little annoying and obvious. Not growing any. I’ll dedicate a little misery to Tallulah Bankhead, who made me, sorry to say, laugh with all her Wilde-like tendencies.


Habits of cursing form early in childhood.
He never uttered fuck before the bastard
bitched, bit his head off for that slut's ass
spread mold-like on his knees; boy's knees dropped
and Harold, wicked cunt, made me scrape
my tendons and linings with the language of pigs.
Anyway, trash and broken glass,
little specks in what I saw: cannon-sprawled victim
   sweetness fluid after dark
   last good thing he ever did for him, for me,
the matriarch of a dead branch of fleshiness.
The figs don't uproot and dry in the murderous sun.
I don't uproot; in the words of Talullah, 
BOURBON & CODEINE, beheaded and floating.
Not enough poison in the Nile to reconstitute 
the Lazarus skeleton, for which juvenile I act civil.
He enjoyed me civil. Confidantes can act lavish for you,
little tree, son of a cave bear given to lashings and blues.
If only it weren't the noose; instead--a boon--a bruise.
Could've left him and took you. If only I could choose!

//

instead of “…a dead branch of fleshiness,”

“a hideless/fleshness dead branch”

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~ by Jeremy on October 12, 2008.

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