Cookware

Madmen think too much—
mad for it, same as the motherboard.
Other kin include the corncrake
who does not stop but to bellow—
by ear by shattering by shudder—
or all the sounds of many rabbits
thinking on how to fuck fastest,
the old turn of their hips—
or the boy who festers within
himself like boils or tapeworm,
gnawing, all knowing and gnawing—
the gnaw of neurons for no comfort—
but to seek—they seek depression—
gnawing like Lucifer bringing Lucifer
to dinner where manners rule—
or the bite of constant blink
how blinking stutterers do—
they stop, they collapse—
but talk your thoughts out
or so says—fuck ’em each and every—
a colt nicknamed epilepsy—
to think, or do gluttony of—
meals of staring straight there
at the sunset as if it moved—
or wanted to, though it does
like the retarded mare—
just birthed, walking like a puppy
fresh from the bakery—
and to speak of the cook
brains cook like red meat
on the spikes, valleys therefrom
the fat slides off—perhaps—
perhaps like anxiety falling—
may it, will it cripple its
munching dumbness at the priest
standing forefront to it—
the skull—briefcase of energetic
boiling memories, to experience
with what is known a great convulsion
that shakes the chaff off—
if possible, like a nova
or a brisk and burning shower—
but to think, to contemplate
is dying on the stake—on—
on the scorching dinner plate.

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~ by Jeremy on May 18, 2011.

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