A lone camera in a desert of jellied faces

A hardy fetch-up
the cool candies of skeletal
men sat in bender stools.
What, Joe drinks and his wife
is a lesbian who streaks at night?
Is that who I smell down Lenox
where no other alley ends to?
There is a cause of scandal in
children who are not put on a cross
and tell of hairy palms and vision loss.

Oh, but what else and right
that a woman should boil her brains
back to the simian it came from
like a wound exposed to phosphorous
or someone more jealous.
The woman descended into mushrooms
and forests of them piled
over her guts, until
writhing how god’s back wrothe hills
she flew off a distant handle while
a crowd of ghosts chanted kill.

For our apartment, I painted it with
her pieces of smoke that laminate
a sealant set of walls that ate
like perfume a scaly scent of her
ancestors, and how they swam like mine
in currents of rusty shrimp and brine.
To stab their genitals how a stylus makes
to stab a scrap of woven hemp
would, if not, be acutely ached
until the last life takes to its grave?


~ by Jeremy on March 9, 2011.

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