Monday, November 9, 2015

Thirty-seven

Oh look I got birthday in the mail
Crinkly cuddly I want to put birthday between my knees
Lie on the couch twist and smash an hour
Into goat cheese stuffed chicken breasts

Meaty and layered in thyme, parsley, and chipotle
The upgrade birthday solar revolution version
With additional gigabytes and a moon roof
To allow the lunar landscape to peel into a birthday

That comes with sunglasses because the brightness is ebullient in the darkness
Oozing of the gray wintry husk breath of a birthday Monday
Yawning the week and wow like getting a mom tattoo on one’s ass cheeks
Bifurcated letters by the anus and doing cartwheels to spell transposed w’s into m’s

A reminder of what she made some sunk set of hours into this evening
Stash birthday in a luggage compartment with a sausage link umbilical
Bloody bird’s nest placental afterbirth sack squishy to hardened leather tan
Stuff a bean bag chair full of birthday to squash in the living room

Lean breasts over lump and play Nintendo Contra
Up up down down left right left right B A select start
Again and again until birthday stacks in the master bathroom closet
Like prophylactic hoarding for all the intercourse between bodies

Stunting birthday, dodging birthday, growling down birthday
When love or hormones make one want to let birthday loose from the cage
To pick birthday over a minx or a shepherd fluffy or howling
Birthday wants to come out to play in a wet slick forest of saplings

Rising trunks thickening circumference needles elongated
Spires clawing at god for a finger lick in the clouds
Broadening for a birthday axe to come round
That enough is enough birthday, the trolls need their tooth pick

Mongrels need to eat, bellys be hungry for birthday consuming the accretion
To make room on the slave ship sailing West financed by wild forests marched into plots
Fields of birthday lined grids of birthday categorized as a good life, an honorable life
A pleasant life, a horrible meat-blood fest of a life, a blasphemous life

A repentant life to one’s birthdays stacked in a wooden stump attempting regrowth

In each iteration glazing the sensation of a revolution 

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