"notbe" poems
baby, someday you will be dead
you'll needlessly of nothing lustful
bodyheart or
******* hardly be (notbe, infact)
the loving stupor of thy fragrant zone
or the unchaste familiar kissing *******
not sore, not felt (save for rushing of
wormsdirtroots) not beguilers, food
instead be you'll, baby: crush of soil
or finely whitish powder scattered to
mingle in puckish breezes sweeping
the grass in your onceexquisite piercing
waist(so notdead, baby, i wonder if your
green stem supple might slightly acute
chafed of thorn, baby might like my
hands rushing
notwormsdirtroots
unfleece you, and in your livid youthful
hipsspilll them full of
me
?
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC