Joy catches fire in a mad young head

Gave it pink skin, like inside.
Gave it hair you can walk on
wearing some inner Jezebel boots.
They must be tough, you see.
Tougher than an artery.
The boots must become feet.
Gave it nothing not needed,
not fat, not the smile
faded when touched like water.
Narcissus was split in half,
hanged, and these are the remains.
The joy can only catch fire
if it is to molt—or it won’t.
That blob of brown fat idling there,
inches away from its other,
crawls back, nauseating.
Wants its daddy, daddy won’t have it.
Daddy doesn’t need that shit.
It would fit like clothes, not skin,
not the joy it hid inside.
Now that it is little, it is wide.
Gave it the skeleton it was
and it ate it all up, belched,
licked its fingers, and wrote
you are what you eat on its face
in something letters are afraid of.

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~ by Jeremy on June 1, 2011.

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