Eels and their thinking

Money is purple oh well may I
fuck you for cash instead?—
the sweetness of monopoly,
may I burn a family, the entire?
Then I count and can retire.
Like the rest. The suited many
that have a million more poorer—
who is to judge?—no wolf—
he murders—he steps on necks—
eats voicing throats like I do—
how I want to, like the pawwing.
I’ll be a doctor doctoring the weak
who pay their health out—
the same—dollar for ligament—
for tendon too, lithe on the wreck
of bodies broken broke of penny.
It is what they paid for.
I pay husbands. They marry me,
the hay of their gills.
Stuff them with me will you?
I grow fly wings slobbing through
spines I inherit that growl
in the night—daylight the night—
deaf in the loudness of hungering
boys, whales, the hungry scores
farms breed that kill them hard—
kill ’em all for the larder—
breadbasket, seek a god from caves
dark or bright as the animal decrees—
forty-four eyed or eyeless—
seeing or seeing not the drills
men charge sex food inebriation—
what is the fourth drive but death—
past and past that for food groups—
bliss through heaving uresis—
brash the boy—wholly inside the girl—
who—who does not have saliva
that itself grinds like mules at
the very gristle—jellied fat—
white-yellow on the same fungus—
growing, hewing on filling bone—
the same old sodomy of carnivores—
they plan not squares but circles
their jaws enfold, no brick there—
yet the bricks and Druid towers
tell time—timeless to mouths—
holes that may do one thing—
not two not eat and feed but may feed—
to understand Sartre or to understand monopoly?—

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~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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