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by Johnny Crimson

The meal-worm glides
through jagged Earth.
His filter is the sun,
from science to sideways
he rides the tide of resistance.

bedpan watchmen.
Drip do their words
on the whore's throat.
Painting eyes where a mouth should be.
Always fogging the rear-view mirror.

Choke on the past
what strokes weren't made.
She'll dangle-tongue
slip into herself in the night.

Had to wake her
rest is for the stricken.
Tongue glided through the crevice foretold.
Now I'm stuck in this eternal night, in such close quarters.


Posted on 12/02/2011
Copyright © 2022 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Shannon McEwen on 12/02/11 at 02:32 PM

particularly love the last two lines of the poem.

Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 12/02/11 at 03:59 PM

Good contrast to the last one. I don't think you're ever going to lose your ability to move across such a wide landscape of ideas and images. Loved this, man.

Posted by Jody Pratt on 12/03/11 at 12:59 AM

I love the last line the best. It was a great finish to an intriguing piece of work. Thanks!

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