Post by Steve on Jul 3, 2007 22:18:03 GMT -5
leaning on an old wood slot fence
the thin lumber bending on its rusted nails
the entire length busted
like an old boxer's smile
gapped, teeth lost in stories
only remembered by the years.
staring at beauty girls
who are stared at by cock-jawed boys
and wonder if my own
beauty girl
received the same from me,
me wearing my testicles over my eyes
and my schlong over my nose.
there's book cases that need to be
alphabetized
but Sandburg's stolen my mind
has my anatomy disected into
wings of a factory
with my nose one of his
legend smoke-stacks.
there are shelves that need re-stocking
but my eyes only see the blackberries of Washington
carelessly nodding off like some John Doe junky
in the shade of the evergreens
dreaming of California poppies.
See only the wide sea of wheat
they call Montana
the gold plumes like feather dusters
swooshing the feet of the breeze
pleading to touch the hands of the clouds
that tease like gorgeous girl licking lips.
There are oldmen buying history books
bias history inked by pod people with
strong republican roots, roots that survive anything
like those of the three poison plants,
and they can't figure out whether i'm
hippie
or
fag
they just know outside of this bookstore
i'm an enemy.
a deadly shadow of the choas protests
they strived to think themselves superior to
while they sucked on an ivy teet
preparing to kiss economic feet
and follow single file line like shaved sheep
to the ba-ah-nk.
There are women looking for published excuses
to justify their need to shop,
accounts of fantasies so they can
sleep another week next to their husbands.
The monkey in the rocking chair understands,
silence isn't only the best virtue
but the closest to truth
they want you to say.
Its a great summerday
girls tanning their bodies until
their breasts and butts shine in dark rooms at night
and the rest of them lost in crow feather hours,
nipples and peaches spotlighted
they're devoured by hungry boys
who spit the pits out at the end of the play.
its a great summerday,
surrounded by dead words-
bone writers sleeping in damp soils
from here to Red China,
living writers that i'd trade by the
dozen
for just a knuckle of Sandburg.
The fence is relieved of my skeleton wieght
bends forward to release a creak in its' back
that one day i'll crack
and my presence recorded in the years
it still has left.
the thin lumber bending on its rusted nails
the entire length busted
like an old boxer's smile
gapped, teeth lost in stories
only remembered by the years.
staring at beauty girls
who are stared at by cock-jawed boys
and wonder if my own
beauty girl
received the same from me,
me wearing my testicles over my eyes
and my schlong over my nose.
there's book cases that need to be
alphabetized
but Sandburg's stolen my mind
has my anatomy disected into
wings of a factory
with my nose one of his
legend smoke-stacks.
there are shelves that need re-stocking
but my eyes only see the blackberries of Washington
carelessly nodding off like some John Doe junky
in the shade of the evergreens
dreaming of California poppies.
See only the wide sea of wheat
they call Montana
the gold plumes like feather dusters
swooshing the feet of the breeze
pleading to touch the hands of the clouds
that tease like gorgeous girl licking lips.
There are oldmen buying history books
bias history inked by pod people with
strong republican roots, roots that survive anything
like those of the three poison plants,
and they can't figure out whether i'm
hippie
or
fag
they just know outside of this bookstore
i'm an enemy.
a deadly shadow of the choas protests
they strived to think themselves superior to
while they sucked on an ivy teet
preparing to kiss economic feet
and follow single file line like shaved sheep
to the ba-ah-nk.
There are women looking for published excuses
to justify their need to shop,
accounts of fantasies so they can
sleep another week next to their husbands.
The monkey in the rocking chair understands,
silence isn't only the best virtue
but the closest to truth
they want you to say.
Its a great summerday
girls tanning their bodies until
their breasts and butts shine in dark rooms at night
and the rest of them lost in crow feather hours,
nipples and peaches spotlighted
they're devoured by hungry boys
who spit the pits out at the end of the play.
its a great summerday,
surrounded by dead words-
bone writers sleeping in damp soils
from here to Red China,
living writers that i'd trade by the
dozen
for just a knuckle of Sandburg.
The fence is relieved of my skeleton wieght
bends forward to release a creak in its' back
that one day i'll crack
and my presence recorded in the years
it still has left.