Nary meditation on this knoll

Mouth cancer here: no tantra no screwing
allowed no shouting never out loud.
The yeasts congregate their kindred all
snake-handlers rolling holy their faces
like Southern women made with Ithacans,
bright and feeble. Slack as stumbled morons.
What will come to the wetted neurons
their tangles bare that make eyes shut
and stayed, their little hands unfingered
poking at themselves like those scouts
of adolescence who never knew a bareassed
joy like this could be had in a lonesome
coupling of this hand and that hand.
Why the nerve cells they somehow learned
to masturbate, produce math, and burn away.

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~ by Jeremy on May 24, 2012.

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