Certainly outside if not in

A kindled light not from stars
but from camps lends its face
to a certain silhouette the devil
frowned upon from shame. The same
drawing of people that lifted ceilings
above pious heads in prayer and head,
giving it, is what we call it
or lying down on a lit up lap
scorched from the branching stubble.
That nappy spread of darkly grass.
And windows into a doctored tract,
unlit itself, not to be known or told of.
The heartbeats meet up there where
termini match each others’ tune.
Like shrimp shooting shrimp. Like
whales limping onto the backs of seas
that pulse and give the hotter heat
only demons understand that irradiates
from man, and his brothers in fate
who match for match sit the seat.

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~ by Jeremy on January 11, 2011.

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