Two of those plunging faces

While you were cheating on goatweed
at the last supper I chose instead
a faster sleep than what I have
buying such a pillow as that one,
the thing you wipe your body on
like wine stains, they are wine stains
as furious as the periods you steal.
Deaf thing you, allow me the gesture
of what I did in the woods mouthing up
fly chow, that man’s face like I too
ate as I slept next to your twin,
or the piling of clay that looked like you.
Not leftist, a man of plight
looking clearheaded for once but gone
where it counts, in every neuron
heavily burned out or sold
like dead weight I lay on by
the squalor of myself, oh,
you loneliest man of plight
who would rather drown me than row.

______

That face on the moon rots slightly every year yet there is no atmosphere.

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~ by Jeremy on January 2, 2011.

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