It settles gone

It is pale and short.
That stump there has a name.
Will not call it by anything
that is not shit.
Is shit, therefore, call it.
It’s a human being with teeth,
same as a dog. Kick a dog.
All that’s good for it,
kick it for the love of god.
If that means something.
It’s strung up like a sap tree
worshiping the sun.
It is murdered, it is done.
Oh, grow, you blinking ghost.
Nothing but a wisp.
Try to grow, be stillborn.
Reduce the slight to piss
and tell it it is something else.
The wisp comes. Is kicked and melts.
Tell you any different?
May have yet see you any difference?
Happen to know the truth.
Turn it inside out, its blood is blue.
Never is red as it claims.
See it maimed.
See it named, as it wants,
or strangle it again.
It should pretend it
isn’t where it counts dark blue.
Here where the skull is
I make every single rule.
And the somethings follow.
Cannot talk to simple ghosts.
What to do, though,
I made that told.
I made it whimper its face away.
I told I saw its masquerade.
It chose to bray, bray, and bray.
I will let it. I got beauty
and stole all, every bit of it.


~ by Jeremy on June 3, 2011.

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