Normal fruiting body

I am not a corpse, not yet—
I can’t beleaguer my beleaguered relatives
that fled our original vat,
I can’t mildew the mildew placid.
I can’t, to make it clear, imbibe sunlight.
Honky dory. What I will do
is make more makeshift the makeshift
nothings salty on our homes,
shortened some, inviting, six by two.
If I talk too loud, I talk to no one.
If I breathe, I only breathe a flu.
If I spasm, it is freed alone.
Every ten years a nigger term is renewed,
makeshift, questioned intensely:
and what fresh torture can we make for you,
little stunt, who ate through the cleavage?

~ by Jeremy on August 4, 2011.

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