A circle sum

Why is it how come
I made more sense
reaching for titty
when Earth was early
than I do at twenty?
Ever notice late at
night you slur some
after you sat
on your ass too long?
On your soft head
that shook when
the train sang
its rattling arrest
or on your back
staring up at
sprites and sounds
so dumb you drowned
just lying down.
Little difference
in mere arithmetic.
Twenty long years
of instinct sniffing
the same esters
in the same nostrils.
Nothing is real
except frank coincidence.
God’s plan always was
ashes to dust
mutters to hush
drowsy to numb
muttering the psalms
of peasant blood
inside your first fuck
then you realised
it’s your mother’s valise
or it could be
you so easily
slipped off like
a finger snapped
for good luck
or was it spite
at the nursery
or was it
the altar pit
you got married in
on May fifth
or maybe on
its second Sunday.
Can’t remember which.
The gender asterisk
confuses only half
my moments into
a battery in my
groin and spine
charging like
enlarging goiters
that splintered
into every bend
of my cateracts
into the split ends
of my ear hairs
into the mouths
of my hungry skin
into each and every
prison cell I
hold smells in like
memories that were
of your own birth.
How come when
I feel good I feel
as if I am
a poor bag of days
all scattered and bored
like trophy iambs
half or less
inching to pleasure
mute and sore
scavenging for
the smile threshold
between what I’ve
seen and been in
and what I’ve imagined?
How come when I
drink the dry gin
I waited a while
for I get the sense
I’m drinking milk
twenty years fermented
and heated up
in a swollen gut
that reeks of
stretch-mark gelatin?
All over eaten up
by spots that
testify down there
is a nest
of trained elves
first born
when my father swore
he won’t himself
resort to drink or
call corner stores
his home away from
the town home?
Inside it lived
a man in love with
absolutely nothing
and a woman
loving the part
of her body
that will outlive
the internal entirety
of her only body.
My first trimester
I had a tail
that I swallowed
floating around
thinking on how
things would work now
if my ignorant parents
had escaped each other
instead of dying in
a twenty year old
prison sentence.
An odd conclusion
bold as an embolism
fond of self reference
certain its origin
is perfectly divine.
It goes like this:
in the end I find
little difference
between pupating
and the act of death,
that of mutating.

–notes–
In the end I find
the dictionary
must always define
its roots in dictionaries.

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~ by Jeremy on November 28, 2011.

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