Mother made from Father

Sorry I wrote this, but no one reads this shit, anyhow.


Police tribesmen run
the river at one in the morning
strung out on hunger, naked as lust
   finally right at the corner of dusk
an alien pokes a bear in the ass
and the ass remarks, Daddy you're weird
colored as a playground marble with a makeup beard.
The new man hales from a crevice in a flower
around the canyons where heroin grows
untapped by man but nude for the sun's hours of touch.
The alien appears in a coat, right
Soviet looking commoner and glasses
something from a tree out of his lapel
   it's talking,
the alien, in the voice women long for 
on seaside balconies in the past
and homes too silent to support life.
On the mothership, Tosh cuts his hair,
loses his strength and the satellite
pulls Mars close to California,
pulls the waters from Pluto to a stagnant swamp
near the Bayou of Africa, making flowers of dust.
Governors, liberal ones, float on their legs
to a clock in London, and from the second hand
drop onto a carriage, then onto a fruit stand.
Well, Daddy, you can chronicle the bowels
of tombs and mansions, both alike, 
you can wipe your nose when you're alone
and still wince your eyes, and Daddy,
you can count your money when Mars tells us
we should have fucked more, dreamed more, 
rather than wait to be flowers of dust
or a bear's asshole, or timber, or musk.

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~ by Jeremy on April 18, 2009.

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