of the bland

found poem

there was a grave
full of earth worms
scraping the
blackness
with their booty.
this is where
i wonkily
tripped risible
toast to loud
drunken
violence
from scrote to minge
a touch of hairy
swine, milky toss
jumping in cracks

i am clammy and sighing
the way a chucklehead
slides inside herself-then
metatherianises.
it is the pouch
of sentience and hole
 the sand
in your pants
chapping the thunder of my thigh
i fan
near festive shores
unspoken screams
brothers lost in
each brother

in a room of scones
and marmite deeds
where your cars
wheel like moans on the
long drapes, as unquenchable
fountains and dogs
i bind your feet
around me
push my a*s to
poetry in mingled
showmen
and hope they
fly
with my belief
in shoes

Author's Note

did you find this poem?

Reviews

[Pól]

Excellent.
Was surprised by the shoes