A child writes in a century


Who else but a ragged formless
horned woman could scorn
the face of science with a tasteless tongue
well laid on the map of anatomy
and fields of corn where grow molestors
and alcoholics and boys in tasteless frolic?
What but my own organs could walk
to thresholds of madness and bark at the bells
hanged from necks which twitch and turn pale
in a light called music
of which there is euphony and of which there is hell.
At the shop where broker unkept men
I play with the ribs of others
well content to be tasteless and ten
reading and reading a tasteless bend.

Poorly executed experiment.

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~ by Jeremy on June 8, 2009.

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