The ear trade

I trade your soul for a syllable—
Ah! Acht! I have done it, stop.
Your son the knuckle kisses me
like drupes falling onto water unplucked.
Sex is the meeting of brutes.
I trade your violence with mine.
Someone, who?, cleaved the sun in two
hungry one day, barefoot by you.
Strangers should not call your name.
I will cleave your neck in twain
that my hands ripen—
things die the flutter as your brain
trebles your goose-calls out.
Broadcast squawks like the mating hive, killer.
Lyric is fool by the by if
by is around your neck hanging on—
then sense is made like bright toys.
When did the fucking hands turn mud-brown
I got?—and small as slaving.
Or fucking in the dark
for no other—lamp is ugly,
the lampshade not, nor fatal
as it drools hanging over—
you maybe—the psychology
and demon and nigger the same
when the hackles prick—
I have seen your room
my friend and pieces of your body
short like too short for anything but—
blacklight then, your sense and toy—
only the body knows it knows—
phone in the swell down there
I guess—slap your foot on my brow,
tell the Nazi what to do—
after all my genital the psalm
told nothing of the bright star pinned—
to rend each the other split
on the summit of mooching Babel
I wrote to with dry-nut gums.
Remember, I wrote my name on
your gait—your walking days are over
but you may crawl into staring purgatory
like an earwig—under moonlight steady—
perched on a crib—

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~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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