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POEM: The Pig Poem


You, Pig,
this pole plunged through your anus is also in mine.
Allow me to introduce myself, Mr.Wavering, Watery, watching you here,
plastic party cup in hand, sock feet on fresh
cut, periodically sprinkled end-of-summer lawn grass,
in midst of mirth, keg, horseshoe and barbeque.

You, Pig,
like me, you wish you were putting on preposition one, the
systems analyst from beyond town, the chain smoking, volleyball playing,
blue false eyed vix, orange lapped chapped lips, blurred
super sauce sunrise nails. Immobile swine, you are suspended
on pole, arrested in the supreme zone of immobility, edging the landscape,
impaled sub-dominant form.

You, Pig,
once gnawed the trough as I lick this cheap plastic cup. We
are much the same, ‘cept the big fat apple
in my mouth is called language (or lack of language),
stuttering beer mouth, beer words, stale metaphors,
symbols and swill,

ah succulent swine,
let us view our next example, Proposition Two, the woman who bared and brought the
kewpie haired baby. The single mom, sienna thick woolly brittle toast haired, obscured
face in string, peekaboo in matte, semi-pocked face, denty, inset
cool ice blue eyes, pale blue x-mas light eyes, edge of suburban
Barnegat beacons, tossed fast face eye bulbs, flash landscape and she take a drag,
take a drag, and I could be painting her words right now. I speak, but —–>

I am inert, busted, basted, broken and lame. Grass stains
crouch on my socks, contemplation enlisted non-memories
of a smelly glazed historical gore. Burn my tongue and blaze my brain,
I thought I recognized this address!! I mention it,

as your skin flakes away in hot fried shingle shards, I want you to know,
my confidant, that this is the house, this is the bi-level house, where the freckle girl lived,
an old ex-lover of mine who co-incidentally is getting married today,
is getting hitched on this very day of barbeque and beer.

Proposition girls pound balls fruitlessly over the net.

Eight years ago, I passed without much argument.

The gum chewing freckle queen subsequent of suburban haze, who used to disrobe in
that window, drop shades, in that hazy window, in white dress, pale, pale
white dress, fluttering cloth like summer dust. Bronze she was and bronze she is and freckled, the color of cider sparkling in the sun.

Nothing more than dressing. Sprinkled with spice, barely fit to eat, crusty in fragments of
freckle nipple in a you-are-not-invited volleyball barrage. Yeah, yeah, and it’s not eight years ago, Pig, it’s the end of summer 1998, you’re not at a wedding, you’re at a barbeque,
and those coals are flaming hot, licking your swollen bulging fat guts.

Suburban sub-motorpsycho dreams will dismantle us, as I tip my dented cup on the tap.
Too much foam. Remember to remove your shoes so as not to scuff the new hardwood
floors. I’ll keep my stained socks on the lawn.

Dream freckle not taking me in mouth but I will take you, uncomfortable swine,
to gnash, to chew, to devour and digest.

Dear dismantled swine, the
stalker gets the girl, and we’re left with the scraps;
a warm glass of keg beer, and
and overstuffed mouthful of you, Pig,

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