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The colored Seraphim waste me
With hypnotically sedative back-up harmonies
Their petals bud tighter than my rolled up bill
Burning orange beyond any lucid ecstasy
The original nymphet—
Lap dance to post- desperate Mexican blues
As I sit—cane in hand at the milk bar,
Staring through the television screen
brewing hard times, come full circle
Well dig,
I must make amends with a vengeance
Like that of the mothers of our soldiers lost,
(Old Testament stylie)
If you can hear me,
On your throne, your cloud-- its out of the bush
I will not destroy with truth, instead
With the face of a ghost, I burn
I’m done waving my freak flag
Like a squeaking wheel to afraid to respond
That fragment of humanity will always remain,
In the tattoos covering my slave back
I repress--
fueled up on amphetamine,
And that so delicate self-tolerance--
finally coming home to stay,
like the stray cat in your barn--
filtered into faltering control
the plunger slides to dilating eyes
now set me free, take your manos desalmadas de mí
You have always told me Id not live past 25
Ain’t no hangman motherfucker
I’m a coffee shop cop-killer

  manos desalmadas de mí (soulless hands off me)

26 Mar 07

(define the words in this poem)
(1 more poem by this author)

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