Saturday, October 10, 2009

Poetry Year October 7

Fuck fuck fuck,
fuckity fuck fuck
the fucking fuck fucked a fuck of fucks.
What the fuck did the fuck fucking think?

Fick fack fuck,
the fuck will try his luck,
ran rabid run around,
reaching for every hem and curve,
leering at every breast and bend,
hoping for humping of every hip.

What profundity this is,
the most might right of might rights,
that the free for frees free have a way to waste their nights.
Giving nothing,
taking anything,
giving a spewed caldron of creation condemned,

So many here, you could fill a truck,
It's all out there, with just some pluck,
a meal so endless, you want to huck.
For a few days more,
They do implore,
please let it be, let it remain,

Novels, poems, essays, penses,
are worthless beside the holy chant,
monument to the interreligion's deepest chant:
wanna mana, falling momma,
wanna wanna fuck?

For a brief moment still,
in corners unrenounced,
the old ways still apply,
and the weather is for ducks.

I don't know what it is like out there,
but in here,
It's raining fuck.

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