Study of her burlingtons

This girl won't do it.
Won't split the tree of her forehead
as violently as my window,
as her nails so pretty a week ago.
Won't reassess the days of mess,
mess of days and dinners, silent dinners
out of plastic so cool to the touch.
   Reorganise, reidentify.
No, ogrenise, this girl'll ogrefy
for my brother and he wasn't so swell a guy;
this girl tells me the story--devils
fucking devils in these orange shaky bottles,
fucking artists of my demise all of you relations!--
every night I care to visit, do you listener think...

is it, is it what I fear, what makes me steady my hand
when it, my hand, falls flat on my head
drinking and thinking about that pretty little thing?
So inconsolable she'll let her pretty young grapevine
rot like bread left to stale in a child's candied stomach.
I'll compile a fancy of autumn's harvest for her face
instead of the palm of spring jam I once bid her taste.

~ by Jeremy on October 12, 2008.

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