The new stoning men babble to women

Or: An instruction I issue

Well, sir or whorish madam you, horny I laid to
a God a lazy tongued him to my body I never
cared much for, all Southern and gathering
of things I wished weren’t that I hadn’t had
two hundred years I’m promised, gold all glittering
and chests pounding about now, I’m told, and am
promised those who ride dumb in the face, like me,
littely simply. A sixteen year old boy cured me.
Who knows what drooling sliding cacophony
sits still smoking my selfsame cigarette,
its forehead stretched from north to southern sea.
Let me stretch my jaw since I’ll never see it:
what’s a cigarette, and what’s a crouch
this church-going boy all slender all body
purposed as a drawing said of me, tender boy me
who slouched in a new woods people robbed food from
not two hundred years strangers from seeing
God in a bed, next to my stony hips, poor them
biting their thumbs at an instruction I issued?
God babbles to me and poor me I have whiskey dick.

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~ by Jeremy on June 5, 2012.

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