Thirty too much

Or: Another Logan’s run

I have turned into this, sad thing though
it is, no sadder than a one-lunged maniac
screaming between the cheeks. The inviting
kind that have teeth, mind, not those belching
kind I don’t much want, and yet do want.
Why, we’re literate perverts, and I want,
and you do not want. Mazes and mazes.
Your eyes bring out the adolescent in me,
born again in the muddy brown broad
lonesome quirk of being a fleck in history.
Sawed in half the way a priesthood wielded
licking their lips as we spilled boiling
our brains on the ground and better parts.
Half was fat, the seat of waiting bodies.
You do not want it, but I’ll go on craving
the lovehandle smirking me I’ll dote on
plenty, whether I had, or had not more likely.
Let me say it poor astral me, you dreaming
will not dream long if I gather it necessary,
if I gather strength poor me dived headlong.

My, audience, I’m getting just maudliner and maudliner lately.

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~ by Jeremy on May 27, 2012.

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