Fodder for the smallwristed

Such is life, where an everyman learns
good things sap themselves dead;
the back becomes an enemy at six & a decade.
The perfumed love letters rot to elegies,
sugar to the bellies of flies and worms,
food to the tyrant’s manhood and energies.
Pleasurelessness fondly recounts its places in history;
decay comes at turtle-pace
down where the rabbit plays, in a deep hole
dug from letdowns, failed abortions, and diseases of a dollar.
Too many apologies, says the body, when the bedsores encroach;
stubborn skin, stubborn down in the liver, too dim an organ to cirrhose.

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~ by Jeremy on March 6, 2009.

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