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May 24, 2013

sixtysix

terrible verse
falling
down the page
like
tears
squirming
cut the worm in two and let it grow.

Shut your fucking mouth.
Suck a barrel.
Wash it out.
Whence slid your tongue to such pragmatic.
Phlegmatic bilge?
Christ, now you’ve got me at it.
Where’s your balls?
Sing a sonnet.
Scream a song.
Fourteen lines should seem a pre-load.
Snorting sick, toreros, Papa please.
Where’s your love of it all?
Kiss the cheek of the weak.
And make them strong.
I will love you and speak to you ‘til the end of time.
Horribly twisted on red wine.
In love with dribbling sentiment.
Gorgeous bite of smoke between each line.
God, save me from what’s good for me.
Hell, spare me from the crust of twice-dried eyes.
I would lay with anyone in this moment.
Christ, choke on the beseeching call of the drunk.
Writing the Great American Novel.
You will see.
The Old Man and the Sea.
Reserve it.
I will own it, yet not deserve it.
Let the day wait for the gloaming.
Implore.
Your love for Karen Dior.
Regret it in the morning.

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From → Poetry

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