Like gentle murder

Lunacy babbles sense to me—
is it true toddling worms die
groping for tricky mud,
their bodies unknotted undone?
They reach to tag the sun.
Imprisoned? My crib
is a strong one though
it bears a brittle slum—
bird penis like a shrunken bull
eating grapes and shells that meet
in the middle of a joke,
strung up half-mast in pearly rain—
throwing buckets of it back—
good to drown if nothing else
while back hooks bending shelf—
to sit on—sitting on dangling—
the hood itself a fashionable
moving umbrella yapping monstrously—
yawning like the mere—
where snakes—snakes on fire roam—


~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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