Bystander in a binge of looking

A binge of looking
into & at this woman,
this laureate of such tired writing
which itself repeats itself
could now nearing noon
in my dark & searing mankind’s suit
break my stance, could make me swoon.
A wild homosexual mushroom
underfoot would grow a root
in hopes of feeling her,
any part of her in the dirt & soot,
as a dog would salivate
for a taste of her, her body’s waste.
What in a prostitute is divine
in any hare or worm in mud,
in weather, circling above,
the hawks, in them too,
in her looks, my swoon, her womb,
is but the iniquity of habits
of dying men who want to spoon,
want their bodies on her youth,
their pauses rough, their kisses smooth,
would want all the world soothed
& binge on her, her temple’s roof,
her body’s curve, her mind aloof,
her lungs alive, it would behoove,
the sun itself now quarter-moon
in this a day of dying soon.
The train leaves her there
in a knot of men & boiled air,
her body sweet, her death replete
with men who hold but rope-burn heat,
the rope & oak, the country cross,
the saw and mask and mankind’s loss,
& though mankind is in the making,
mankind is spent, cannot repent,
old was mint, only dross,
is doomed & rent for its taking
of but a piece of one female albatross.

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~ by Jeremy on May 24, 2010.

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