A babble that maimed the ill

After all the gangrenes said “I meet each to end”
his—a man, or equivalent—hairline jaw towards which float
purrs of rampant women on the keystone
of their haughty shacks turned like
hairless heads of gurgling fish
drunk on their wake sulking, sucking,
cod or the restless alcoholic salmon
and breedless cats meow at a hermitage,
it’s a conveyor belt new cities give afterbirth
to hands on all hands out the many
thoughtless circuits purring on.
The border-crossing of Jesus of Nazareth.
A Hispanic diehard and his spit
spake man will never do what is never
fit of juveniles, hot sunlight itching
when no month has washed or talcummed
or saw its prickly skin for what it is,
and thirty years itching is a constant sport.
The jaw has a face and its face wasn’t born.
Its companion is the diaphragm of a cat
in a tuxedo one could only unskin if not lily white.
Do the similar, your teeth your guts, squall
perched each meager click squalling on yours or mine.
Ate part of me when you came out whatever you are.
My hand feeds itself its knuckles and joints.
Thumb and pinky meld and part, they meld,
they part how obsessives over the centuries did.
Wine, where is the wine. Anthills with fences.
A nervous dropper of shot and iodine.
Gout-hearted slobberer where is your pride—
is it sticking in the trap of your neck?
No man never killed or popped his vessel at it.
A rite is a rite is a rite is a rite is a breakdown.
The Hispanic diehard could wrench it free
as skittering melodies jarflies hold
boom and right in their chuffing sides
that no sane lobe would slick the teeth of
it all floats right off in something gloved in jaundice,
or is it plaster God can’t bear to shoot as it was.

~ by Jeremy on July 23, 2011.

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