A slouching house of sexual ears

Their doors burn in their brains,
the room a frame around a laying-down
little man and little man in a final
rise breaking then an arousal dropped
who upon a forehead rocked
in this the house aroused by shock
& who upon a forehead dropped.
There are neighbors killing by a wall.
We too busy hump and fall
for us the leisure lengthens all
for us the flesh engorges all
for even then the neighbors scream
the night itself repeats our dreams
for the night itself has a mouth.
A hungering softly-lit grandmother’s mouth
gone senile from company
which humps and falls just as we
who touch and kiss in search of sleep.
My antelope here comes to me
weeping as though the walls to be
are yet up, to erupt, to not yet enclose
us together dead, us apart alone,
the rocking sun should spit its bone
like a cow rocking dead its calf
upon the flesh like flesh on bone
it should and will kill us alone.
By then the flesh was rocked to burst,
the neighbors born, fled, fucked, draped,
cured, cut, smoked, ever nicely in the hearse,
I dared see if flesh past gone could lock
my only open sore, my only open curse,
for touching never quells itself until could stop
what should bear again the cock-head mock,
the heads and faces red & rocked,
the length and leisure quickly hawked,
the hump and fall cold was hot,
flesh and dock would rise me forth
unto his biologic warmth,
the civil inching coal of cock
from which the night itself draws shock.


Inspired by Dylan Thomas, whom I’ll posit traveled forward in time and took notes on my juvenalia, and dedicated heartily to a certain friend of mine.


~ by Jeremy on May 18, 2010.

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