The flat bedding puddle

The bed is a lure. In its middle
is rust curled into my backside.
It gropes me all night.
My hip jaws, still hot and open, they eat
the eating jowls that eat them. Next to me is a seal
and I am awake as bus exhaust.
The white boy with stimulant eyes.
Some squaw stares and a housecat squalls.
My lotteried aunt, my leathery aunt
what with her notebook of numbers—
two inches of bathwater, no more.
The arms yawn into me, my shooing body.
At seven I ejaculated, at eight I wore undies
I’d tap still if a biggerman wore them.
I cannot imagine what is wrong with me.
Here is a concussive blur and holes in the floor.
At fourteen my head swam and in between
I jerked off silenter than my labrador breathes.
The bed looked like a staining
some lunatic would make with grandma piss wailing.
Every bladder was my house, that whiff.
An uncle—suck the skin off my dick!—
sweat at three in the morning and a too old slur—
I will put a hammer on him—
could do like a starer all night visiting and remark on.

Please, please don’t tell me I’m going into my confessional stage. That shit seems to last a decade.


~ by Jeremy on July 10, 2011.

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