Wild atmosphere after

Dogs loose chase the children,
trees lie drunk over older forts
tapping out their tune of grunge
the wind harps through, rain forgets
how to fall up, people don’t look
like people who had people in them,
sex sweats from all the angered roads
who broke up with each other as did
positively every object ever touched
by toddlers and women, neither worth much
in a rare strain of genetic grease
cooking in railway fires like woods
cook geese and red-feathered reptiles
slithering, stalking the trail clothed,
them and all, all the view of saints
wreaking back their necks to see
every pretty cob of solid fat
lying on the foot-stepped path
they spoke about fasting, winking.


Revise: “fasting on winks.”


~ by Jeremy on January 21, 2011.

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