Pause and lower your feet for Poseidon the man-blower.
Townships cremate under watched mouthfuls of greengreen acres.
Sweat, blood, more sweat,
tears, bloodsweat, torn tears,
sweet whetted yearnings
in year's time treated for formaldehyde burns.
Homeless boundward,
aided by brushstrokes of Fallopian madness,
Cousins hide behind ramparts of lost journal entries.
The highest time for having
rages flower-budding stars.
Know this.
Please understand.
This candy bar is evil,
but it is my candybar.
And somewhere along that map
I, too, squat inside a glass jar
filled with sweetness.
Make no demands upon my rounded back just now.
No. Do no such thing.
My relation to groundskeepers is like
soil to the edge of the playground-
swings in the distance, buildings behind,
gravel and dust inbetween tether-ball sacks
with the frozen rigid parade
of hoppy-scotch-footed spaceships.
I am Mars.
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1 comment:
i know you like all things faggoty, maybe its bearing its fruits, finally, finally.
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