Outlooks and idols’ books

Simpering and wed to your own two hands,
I ask, my friend, do you visit your brides
or them you? When Ecclesiastes stumbles
babbling at your door, do you turn him
to skid row and return to your cold soup
your brides made you but first spat in?
I ask, my friend, do your brides smell
of other centuries flapping at your thigh?
Jealous one of the dominant other, do they
crawl to your eyes when things are dark
and flippant enough to remind of old age
roosting but inches inside? Do they wake?
I ask, my friend, you didn’t sound this way
when we were young still and well hidden.

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~ by Jeremy on June 4, 2012.

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