Not joy

On the whole, taken in lunch,
honest tinder must taste like the salt
sexual people leave for reading mice,
three and blinded as they watch
an amalgamation of headlice
and amnesic sinners playing the bulb.
Don’t they do it so well they nauseate.

A scroll for dinner, and a tail,
all upraised in a poise of feeling
that good feeling in the stomach
where oaks grow tall, and people short.
The schizophrenic one on top does his
then turns the stall around to face
that good feeling face not yet worn,
was left out in the cold, in here for warmth.
Legs, long-haired legs crawl up the hills
of that one’s shoulders bearing man
in a vertigo of pleasing moans
for in this instant nothing sleeps alone.
He has years left to climax, burned here,
a scorched plot of head and hay and wax
left to reconstitute its body from the jovial
human beneath him, unlearned of hurt,
both cylindrical in shape and strangers to work.

~ by Jeremy on January 1, 2011.

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