Darky on the bay itself knowing paleness

There is no remorse in an alcoholic
if he hurts but has only himself,
and can fathom noon but never morning.
As his cells wrote, and lamented what they
would endure as he smiled to death,
there was a certain poetry there
in between the fat and gristle of his torso
and the wrist he masturbates with, was
a poem that went ceaselessly into hours
upon years, wreaking couplets to strangers,
leaving scrawls of what he knew and did not
as pure as his fantasy wrought.

When the baby is hungover, he changes sex
and begs his mother dump him into rivers,
in pieces to travel, his leg to Amsterdam
for instance. What people actually feel
when they orgasm in the night and break
the wall behind their head from violence
is what this one knows is rote, is there
as the sole monument to emotion he’ll promote.
And that promotion will echo within his ears,
if not lovely nature or another’s nodded head
but that promotion will save him dead.

The baby plows the cornfield and is saved.
His papa knows it when his Africa
plays dead too, in his loins making milk of
sweltering boys. Knows it when he
hides himself in hide and seek,
knows what the wind sighs like he does
when his baby son winks and gets some
talking of it how proverbs talk of sin.
To fall ill how he fell, wonders what Hell
is if not this pollenated crutch he grows from,
wonders when the old nigger died and the new
one took that gasping breath, himself a babe,
had tears thinking he were darker inside too.

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~ by Jeremy on January 13, 2011.

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