How mindless want

A female object, this one,
a tabloid under every pore
and musical gestation within.
A city inside of poplars
growing over the poppies on
the ridge of her spinal chord
in harvest, what spills in a windmill
drawling now. A perfume rack
of human smells and a pan simmered.
Oyster and craw and ponytail,
an apple of a face planted
on a stem of marble, up from
the solid block so thinly wrought
the artist must have kept her
in his bedroom, and never ventured into town.

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~ by Jeremy on February 13, 2011.

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