they take the fruit of thy wombs to march under plastic lights box them next to bombs dressed as butterflies
shudder-filled and gaping eye-lets on shoeshined leather shoes jaundiceyellow dresses, skeletonwhite tights on fertile limbs for sunday-fundsday in polyestered churches
(unholy penises clandestine vaginas bitter ******* pails and pails of rotten milk)
the spermcelled youth does one-by-one recede (shut down in silence) like ancient ocean waves pinned to walls of basements (if ever there once existed a single thought poured into vocabulary like thick honey it has been yanked, uprooted)
the doublewhites pinguid with natural resources at the stroke of the clock, seven minutes exactly darwin's darlings
top of the line
highways in their white & yellow lines white picket fenced lines lineages that stretch on for miles in every dusty yearbook inside every polished private school long lines of feminine hair hanging from the neck pulled by pudgy pink hands assembly lines of them at midlife (pensioned & post-thanksgiving-dinner days, “satisfied”) in conveyor belts waiting to be shot "dead"
this is the first poem i have written that i can say i am truly proud of