Saturday, December 5, 2009

Our Job Is To Fill Up Space


The slaughtered infants
Line of sin
Observed in dancing alone
The kind know now what was given
Somewhere in the skull
And what was taken in the burning
A voice that got the title: lovebitch
Spent on the grave
Voluptuous moment
Over the world
The reading finger opened
The costliest of curtains
The spoken eye
The still-born curve of art
The uselessness of this minute
The wondrous kiss.

Jesus stretches you little bitches
Sinking in your own sweet juices
Mother’s daughters nearest lovers
Stand up straight, you tiny droppers
Trying to forget the evening
Where lending dying is spurred by kisses
where wheelmen stinking head to knowing
Money worthless sudden melancholy
Where upstairs deadman now is laying.
Where would you get it even if you knew it?
Not in houses, long moustaches
Four and twenty new year’s players
This is where you thought you lost it.

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