A party of none

Or: The first psychopath introspects

An edict like the fat on my organs
bothers the air in every throat
I hold to mine, that rule of soap,
it once the fat of horses
in the distance I gathered,
now the call of crows.

The dog on my wrist or fine old
world on the back I hold
knows as much as I do of love,
of love, that speech I forget
encroaches the spine I withhold
from every gift-seeking nerve.

And as, by mirror, I reserve
a more drowsed-upon approach
to the people I want for my own,
I also take their faces
for their strange muscular tone
that I haven’t felt in ages.


~ by Jeremy on January 4, 2011.

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