New and hounding

Shit in front of me my dog.
My woman, your dangle is the freeze.
The Mormon grendel gold in hand
that drowns in the dirt—
looking too hard—at?—
at the mucus of dribbling fools—
they dribble my days—
my hand the plunger screaming—
or nonsense from alcohol the muse.
Yours is the reading noose,
tangled in the breath, the stutter
of dying Vikings murmuring
their gods out like fish their water.
Gurgle on brother. Mutter on sister.
I am neither but the monster—
monstrous of course—caught too
in the net—the branch, the fist—
oh, vice grip, I’ll swell in you—
I’ll burst like the house
that greeted first mad atoms—
wars over a stimulant blue—
White Fang and the field mouse—
I’ll sit and pray that the roof
crushes my brain in two—
that I may—I may talk to
myself the raving few—
my dog, the killer, oh killer—
you do not know the rarity of food.

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~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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