Cells firing off

Loot there by the stomach.
Pack-mule of uberfuel. Serpentine,
how it walks courteous as men.
The best friend of dogs, lemurs,
unpausing storms. Asian monsoons.
The purse dicks carry—
like food the neutering impulse
I’m walking on courteous as custody.
Hold me. The brutal kidnapping—
jack turkey skin, booty scatters—
I’ve seen modesty turn to violence.
I’ve made violence from a pot of
filling soup that bruised chunks.
Threw chunks. Death may marry some
day, probably white up there in May.
Always bad days. The bad days vomit
nectar like lightweight self-esteem.
Women chug their fumes in, in, in, in, in—
modules to speak as if I am silicon instead—
tug of intestines begging for looseness
that saw rain saw flames unloose—
gorged on ovaries, baby brother in a sect.
His is prayer all and he prays.
I’ve been split from a tree trunk—
gather in my melody the refugee—
yapping my baby yawns through,
chickens to yell by muscular stucco—
oh the meditation galaxies only they have.
My mother could not throw me away
trash that I am, every cell.
My cells are single. Washing hair
takes so long my air is early man’s—
not wild so called more like the predator
doing his books in what blood
he finds inside things—
and down there like my own sides bit off
more and more how sleep the dead.
Or will they and I, too, come to?—
too many—zombies with baby faces
running down like wax in a star—
I have a question. A courtesy you’ll answer.
Am I, this thing of fiber and sex-drive
swimming to drown or molt into fish
on the beach where beached whales fatten?

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~ by Jeremy on May 18, 2011.

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