Muse of garters

That black mamba by a tarnished oak
standing tall on its legs
turns around, and through the sunlight
collared about it like so much
happy wooded chase it makes a female.
A garter in the mood
runs four-legged, dust on her genitals,
up the slouching ulcered back
of the mamba and holds it,
loves it, teaches it a language
heard by sons when they kill,
and mothers when they turn themselves
inside out, then drunk, then dead.

–first version below,–


That black mamba, wait son,
it's a garter. True enough
a poisonless thing
creeping, wait son,
more like begging around your leg
and will you hold it?
It lives in your hand
as others live
happily in the hearts of others,
and some in others' livers
displaced by the bottle
ever staunch, wait son, it's nearing noon.
   And writing its memoirs
   in the soil with its body
   trailing toward other boys
   the garter writes on the softest
   firmest moistest leg, and on the heart

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~ by Jeremy on July 3, 2009.

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