Bearing tussives

Got them down a rugged throat,
this thoroughfare at halt
for slow the walk runs better still.
A canker is born tailed. Then adolescence
as it falls away from where it came
like pieces of a sock, itself light,
colored as a back left too long
in the weary sun at six.
Same color as a woman’s insides,
a wet bar around a museum
of organs, all dark and blue,
thoughts too, was cool inside,
was eaten all at once from her side.
A baboon in estrus. Supped
all the rest from her drooping ass,
would swallow the rest,
would knock her out and swallow fast.
Then the drip grows up and out
like an anesthetic made of man,
many of them, would look tanned,
hard in the drowsy sun from whence
a body of organs slept and threw
their nerves from its parent mouth,
the mouth that fed and bled them out.


~ by Jeremy on October 7, 2010.

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