Monday, February 22, 2016

poe poem.

become the devil, walk your pretty little self
into the no-mores of the what was supposed to be. walk,
drift, hop, skip jump along the avenues of the

regular and pretty. sterile. enough. i've given
something considerable, somethin' like "my all", nevertheless
contributing to that edgar allen poe story, you know, the
one where the, i don't know, i ne'er read his works, but like,
there's a guy, and a girl, and her name is lenore, and he

loves her 'kuz she's the girl, and there's a raven, and i
myself fall in love with
ev'ry guy just by hearin' their names, 'kuz my
inner heterosexual is one son of a gun, and i don't want

to be here with it, nor, without it; i'd be
all alone, without it; edgar allen poe died
heroic///// there's a little vagina in my face. an orchid

of some rainforest variant. it has nothing to do with love.
i eject my nectar into that whore, her crevices, her beautiful torso
being still, not saying a word, and now she is ripped

apart, like cancer on a tongue or fallen apart
gum, and bugs
are crawlin' all over her. //// this is what poe meant

the whole goddamned time. this was in the year 1850 or
whenever. lenore is still alive. she became

ev'ry angel that is now, even those that top your
christmas trees. happy birthday, christ. ev'ry angel

has stood up to the prideful god- since, has
fallen, and now each rules a nascent hell now.