Words for feud none for concord

If I stack two tallboys, they are shins,
and friends. Let us imagine their life.
The life good boys have instead of chain
smokers chanting in the night God never
meant to invent. They don’t have lips, mind.
The first boy he had a brain swelling due
to a tumor his parents could afford to
kill, like ants playing Mayan warriors.
He liked soda pop and he liked perversion.
The second boy he was all sorts of warped
when he had a bad day which was everyday
for no woman chanted to him his goodness.
He had a talent for abstraction, a talent for
telling his body what to do what it never
did as in trickle, trickle down to sweethearts
like a third boy who never did come in.
What I won’t forget despite these convenings
I gather of my brain cells their cells
all apart like one lover in Wichita another
in a backwoods Italy is their quarrel
that taught plenty folks what evil may manifest,
if given only love and a pinch of squint-eyes.
The bull of Sicily didn’t see such blood, my,
my, boy lover boy, you got intoxicants from there.
Murder or not, we ought, you tins and I, we ought
make the world just foul skunk drunk on what we got.

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~ by Jeremy on May 23, 2012.

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