Eyes for noisemaking

Bang, pop, the noises of death. Outside noises.
Let us hear the inside noises since we know them
so well, are intimate with the bullied ears between.
Whimper, sczle, a disordered accent bellowed
to four crumpling walls and Oscar in his grave.
Buried somewhere in here is a tan curled face
that saw its sun, yes, and was screwed and folded
in ugly agreement. Poor Tennessee where the knees
lean on, a crotch just there and rude but barely,
tinkering on its young the inheritors
of bald heads and joys sawed off.


~ by Jeremy on June 2, 2012.

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