A very social infant

Also entitled: We all need a block of Dramamine

To begin, an infant whore thought
the sweets were blood money bought
and instead were her juices.
Apples, the exotic heads and fluids
stoned on the roof like a handheld sun.
Ignorant ghosts talk on and talk on.
No nipple! No bottle! No hormones!
The suckle is the payment by fires bon
that grew up and seized too young
huts and huts of pasted humans
looking no longer like their adolescence.
The noon of sex back when blue skies
weren’t discolored lies, when folk
thought themselves the only muscle
at mountain heart and flooded mulatto
tints between wet plain and dry plain,
when time was time again the same as age
and when the sole past-time of adulthood
was the murder of Saturday,
one planet of infant whores forgot
what it is to play, what it is to not.

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~ by Jeremy on March 17, 2011.

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