The women each and every

You aren’t too blessed praying there.
That timebomb in your belly narrates
the long story of the thing you’re short
of and mourning for at forty-two. Age
is a comedy invented by boyhood biology.
Lying down do you figure my organs hungry
as eels in the deep can match yours in
their crooked waiting period? How is it
crooked, ma’am, it is crooked like how
old men in a train station are crooked
after having had twenty of you per year,
wanting more, while your ragged children
count the nagging weary billions before them.

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~ by Jeremy on May 24, 2012.

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