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March 21, 2013


She’s the bar and the butt and the gin on the table.
Perfect and pliant and pleasantly able.
She’s a whore, more or less.
But, then, you’re one too.
Nothing you’d do to her.
Unfamiliar to you.

She’s a mess and you’re mulch.
Beleaguered and drunk.
You drive rusty fingers into her cold, useless cunt.
She loves you, she loves you, praise God above you.
The God that you don’t believe in.
A prayer for the priapic and a prayer for the grieving.
A prayer for the locust in The Garden of Eden.
You love her, you love her and you cried out for your mother.
The mother you never could count on.
Steps of Penitence leading to the top of the mountain.
Your reticence and languor and your own destitution.

You carved a cradle in your chest .
In acceptance that you.
Were born in your own arms and you’ll die in them too.
So you rail your seed to the depths of her belly.
And she’ll bear you no children.
But you bear her no grievance.
Don’t ask why, don’t ask why, it’s between her and I.
There’s an understanding between us.
A bleakness between us.
As leaden and dead as the gathering sky.


From → Poetry

  1. gorgeously vile, i love every line.

  2. Wow, I certainly didn’t expect this from the name, it is graphic, but very nicely done. I like it a lot.

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