The grieving pump

First is the sit where a folded
stomach belches through its labor
on a body of silk, folded like it,
each inch a yard of palleative hunch
which feels soft when needing rigid
bowels like a statue needs not to fidget
in the popular discomfort of love.
Unseen love, this one, on the pleasing
frame of muscle and organ and it
moves and talks, called living man,
him like those before in that he craves
to make the flesh of his brothers his slaves.
Second the cough, the drummed cough,
not from his throat but from his soft
descended yarn spun in the thread of nuded
others under his feet, under his head,
them soft too, them hungry for him, them dead.
Third the beat of his cloth, the monoturn
his hand takes so swiftly upon
like his head turns in the grift of song,
for his bald love needs no truth.
He can pump his blood into the mood
of the very morning, drown that to dark,
the dark in here with him always,
dark on his wrist the handheld sway
when he tells someone like you
to pose for him, love him, somehow fooled
by the flowing malice in his voice spooled.

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~ by Jeremy on July 18, 2010.

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