Drama of Martyrs Ran Voragine Out His Stay

Useless man-gutted that I am,
all fours and fours where there
were left-fors, only two

I probed with my eating-finger
I could play jazz with when I’m
forty nearer to death—and high

I spat out broad swathes of talcums
so I could better harbinger
The Lady in my brainstroke twain

your gherkin-vinegar smile and alcohols
I’ve befriended longer and let loose
at me longer than I have at you,

longer than my whole days’ passages
into meanness, no better a word or worse,
invite cocks like the catch of a center fountain

fallen into my one, or the stay-awakes I’ve taken
until I was Paranoia herself, recovered and tucked
away from my pixy man’s do-overings
I can’t have loathed so, not quite so much.

~ by Jeremy on November 21, 2012.

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