The table over

Oh joy, how grease is moist
in this the Southern neighborhood,
where neighbors too wake up
on our skillets, turn guitars
into our facet at play tinkling against
the wood paneling we stare at.
Wood everywhere in our cabin,
the cabin we made into one from
what it could be to turn dreary.
Instead, was all good fire, was all
a perverted smell of morning
Neandertals knew and prayed for
to the god in the sky like our chandelier.


~ by Jeremy on January 20, 2011.

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