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Midterms are over your body.

by Johnny Crimson

Shew the milk into it's bowl.
Wrap both hands around a stream.
Put the money in her back
and watch this auto-bot
moving.

Cause were all kind of lost.
Locks of hair in the dirt
clipped from Indian braids
after right of passage plays

Put me on and on it's cute
but you suffer, or am I just older?
So dig and dig the perfect amount
till your head loses numbers
and her body loses count.

Talk to trees after me.
It's a way to recover.
Find these shoes in the dirt.
5 whole years.
A lover/

Muscled me.
Dinosaur.
Mean old men.
Poor prime-whore.

Painting well.
Doing good.
Seeing nothing.
Fucking timeless.

11/18/2008

Posted on 11/19/2008
Copyright © 2024 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Nanette Bellman on 11/19/08 at 03:44 AM

for some reason this reminds me of...me.

Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/19/08 at 04:55 AM

I really like those two stanzas. They almost read like eight shotgun blasts. Outstanding, as usual.

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