Categories > Original > Poetry
Saint 43. The Blued and the Rude.
1 ReviewsBut passion stroke the best of the monsters. He's calmed, now. Softened to the world. Comes and sees me only to dull his vacant eyes.
“Give me a second,” said man with a gun. “I wanna see what Johnny's made of.”
And he poked at the kid, shoved him around, bruised his eye, scarred his mind.
“Hey, doll, won't you step inside this room? I got a Lincoln for your piercing blues.”
Just give me a second, man
I don't have time for your foolish rhymes
My disgusting frame is shelling up really fast
and I'm afraid of the bombs
They call themselves gunners
call us nancys
I don't care for the sounds they make
When they pull out a bleeding sonnet
And feed it to a dying lover
but hear as you want to, here from a nancy
Pretty as a girl, harrowing in those size fourteens
hey, stick around for a junked baby boomer
for a stupid song, such an inscrutable tone
made for a delicately proportioned face,
married to that angel I left posed in stone
but, oh, precious lazy eyes, we are separated by a November
Hearts gotta pump out something
Might as well be
grief
hate
love
they're all the same in the end
In the end
You die
“Not much in there but a sweet face,” concurred the iron child to that man. “Oh, fucking hate me, zipper lips! Love me, for Christ's Sake, cicada charm! It's the way the word plays on you, blue dove. It's only the way the stars obey your sick needs."
“I observe, you ain't what we thought you were. No apologies, stick strictly to the policies. When you discover who's really undercover, when you decide who's always on your side, when you remember that awful September, when you scrape that memory off the tape...Lincoln's got your back...ain't you gonna wash off that smile?” ”
And he poked at the kid, shoved him around, bruised his eye, scarred his mind.
“Hey, doll, won't you step inside this room? I got a Lincoln for your piercing blues.”
Just give me a second, man
I don't have time for your foolish rhymes
My disgusting frame is shelling up really fast
and I'm afraid of the bombs
They call themselves gunners
call us nancys
I don't care for the sounds they make
When they pull out a bleeding sonnet
And feed it to a dying lover
but hear as you want to, here from a nancy
Pretty as a girl, harrowing in those size fourteens
hey, stick around for a junked baby boomer
for a stupid song, such an inscrutable tone
made for a delicately proportioned face,
married to that angel I left posed in stone
but, oh, precious lazy eyes, we are separated by a November
Hearts gotta pump out something
Might as well be
grief
hate
love
they're all the same in the end
In the end
You die
“Not much in there but a sweet face,” concurred the iron child to that man. “Oh, fucking hate me, zipper lips! Love me, for Christ's Sake, cicada charm! It's the way the word plays on you, blue dove. It's only the way the stars obey your sick needs."
“I observe, you ain't what we thought you were. No apologies, stick strictly to the policies. When you discover who's really undercover, when you decide who's always on your side, when you remember that awful September, when you scrape that memory off the tape...Lincoln's got your back...ain't you gonna wash off that smile?” ”
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