Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Boy, ain’t it time you was thinking about your soul?

A baptism consists in words and hands pouring water over the head                   strings plucked like wheels to make   a   chorus      the stabbed-in-street-war boy  running   home to mama   and the  balm of psychobabble   and peroxide, cottonblood clung to ribs as he dies in    her arms       Disaffected  disinfected  affect   of   going   under    of   struggle with Siddhartha   for just one  grand    mushroom   or to prevent  china    from   invading Afrika    with  roads  and coal     and  rugby     a huddle of thieves  buttering  the iron       muttering  runners    thin  with the grief, flabby, ugly stampede of good unwieldy  dreams  of what to become on all that land    the skirts  of hay  on stilts    to  pray to    or burn   to       Bernadette     churning  in the chalk  like a redneck  wrestler      we  loved  her   prayer /  we  struck   it   down      terrified of  such   a  love      of the glove of    recitation     of  the resuscitation  into a place  the smells  like bubblegum   and  graves where proudM a a f a   gobbles   silver   from the earth to stay   alive     her  hair  growing  like a  weed   skin  shedding   into  some peach  horror   peach tree rotten with waiting    flips on its   gauntlet  hue  and  harmony   is reduced   to miracles    to the mouth of the fruit  opening   and  heaving  you  into its  sweet resume    to resume  sweetly     and need to  be tasted   

 Maybe  not cannibalised  in  the jaded  ward  of   gardens     but  gorging  the mouth  pathological    what is sickle  cell  ?   Indelible  hip bone  feeding  on itself    until  he was  in near constant  pain    what  came to the center    when  he yelled   and twitched   for help      what kent state declension had them reenacting that rape  in the fields    forever