a language is never sorry
Great Whores are things on a wall - none grew up,
but we insist on hiding their viruses
while they work into our sexual purposes.
Perhaps it's the cancer that forgot to love,
or a lover sitting on its fence grading our orgasms
as if we controlled them.
But our days take their time in bed;
they tear away flesh that's eating them,
and afterwards when thoughts are like
exhausted erections, we spread them
thru our lungs to ground us.
I'm thru teaching, or talking about middle existences
on acid in purgatory with God's belief systems.
That's punishment enough, but as the Holy Mother's intern,
I've been promised to some old maniac whose loud breath
smells like Hell's sweetest high.
None of the biggest are the meanest, it's the small sins
that pray the loudest. They stop when I promise to come
without robbing their dens of truth seekers or perverts.
They're convinced that orgasms are gifts from the dead
and only kill the ones who run away with pubic muscles.
I forgot to purge - answers are drowning me,
my closest friends have lost their genitals
to kin who don't know how to use them.
I was told to abuse them, alter their aims,
pursue them to the point of eliminating
their biographers.
Authors haunt them with God's meaningless words...
the real objective is to increase the size of the poem
at the expense of a language which is never sorry.
but we insist on hiding their viruses
while they work into our sexual purposes.
Perhaps it's the cancer that forgot to love,
or a lover sitting on its fence grading our orgasms
as if we controlled them.
But our days take their time in bed;
they tear away flesh that's eating them,
and afterwards when thoughts are like
exhausted erections, we spread them
thru our lungs to ground us.
I'm thru teaching, or talking about middle existences
on acid in purgatory with God's belief systems.
That's punishment enough, but as the Holy Mother's intern,
I've been promised to some old maniac whose loud breath
smells like Hell's sweetest high.
None of the biggest are the meanest, it's the small sins
that pray the loudest. They stop when I promise to come
without robbing their dens of truth seekers or perverts.
They're convinced that orgasms are gifts from the dead
and only kill the ones who run away with pubic muscles.
I forgot to purge - answers are drowning me,
my closest friends have lost their genitals
to kin who don't know how to use them.
I was told to abuse them, alter their aims,
pursue them to the point of eliminating
their biographers.
Authors haunt them with God's meaningless words...
the real objective is to increase the size of the poem
at the expense of a language which is never sorry.