Comb store brushes too

I give birth or rather I fracture
many hairlines like nostrils opened wide
spitting out a jugular gift you tote
like salmon full of eggs, living marbles.
I weep better than the skin on frogs,
eyelids like the bog—
answering bosses of empty cotton fields.
See my hand? It knows how to kill.
See my foot? It bashes the flies in
their skulls like beef soup spilled.
See my chest? It is wholly locked,
Rapunzel is bald and bachelor birds
moan her only company in song.
Like bells flung through
the air stacked on hot air
never to sleep through the night in her hair.

Why then when a school explodes
of guilty fish and vain scales to look at—
the kittenish faces gassed to grotesque—
why then when they die ponds don’t
care a ripple? Oh green like scum perhaps
it is envious it cannot own its death?
Owning things, own that machine and be rich,
own all, everything, every ounce borrowed
and sold—but stop eying that wig.

~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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