Names for growing grass

I slept in brimstone this morning.
I didn’t greet the night, it greeted me.
Like people not eating right.
To exude grease all this fleeing
cocks with legs and easy thoughts.
Simple simple, slaver and slave
balking at the whip,
I caught a lyric you pissing
and still it’s there to be done.
Your eyebrow tires too
so stop lifting it up.
The dying of it.
I dare you man sure of man
to punk me at the slice
of what you don’t know.
I could pave a road with it.
Thirst never halts.
It swelters and grows.
I’ll have to kill you, then,
will have to break my head
bloody on the peace of
saying you’ll sit and you sat.
I guarantee you sat.
Angry young man, indeed,
and I am still obeyed.
I delude I’ll never fade.
Anyone hear anymore
or does the country sing instead?
The rains are boasting
that they are rain, and why not?
A deluge has sounded always like cackling.

~ by Jeremy on June 11, 2011.

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