A clumsy soothsayer

Oh god, a troupe here that snuck in my being.
I have sold my mind to little cans and spoons.
Mimic me, I sold my head for a Sunday pawning.
Oh ecstasy, my god for now, the brain matter
I referred to how Quevedo referred to Quevedo,
I don’t know what longer miles ever had themselves
counted so thoroughly. The prong of the body
on the lurking mind, a poor dissection this.
Here in the breaking water, where little boys
fed themselves on nerves and the B chord,
where their forgetfulness delivers into
unended being short though it is and long-winded.
Two decades from now, let us speak it year
upon year upon day by the carving hundreds,
my roommate genome-folder he will say lips
pursed and obvious by the lamplight:
boy, you look fifty, and you are sixty
with a tarnished voice him my drunken Pliny.


~ by Jeremy on June 8, 2012.

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