The Smell of St. Joan’s Flesh Burning

by Horror Sleaze Trash on March 4, 2014



I was reading poetry

on a train then I looked out the window

& saw something more interesting.

I am a mound of poems

Some interesting, some inarticulate

some clogged

like broken penises

some open

like extrovert clouds,

most though just futile,

sterile like old men in the genetic hot tub.

Conversationalists, at times,

are intriguing

but those excited to be alive

those crushing the cantaloupe soul

and making chicken soup of shame

I find most interesting.

Their disinterest in the bugler’s warning cries

are commendable, as we need those

who are willing to cut themselves open for what they love

The maddening feeling unedited

The celebrated mediocrity starved

The alley apple pluckers and train hoppers


and bank robbers, among others,

have interesting poems to speak.

Poets and artists are comparable to volunteers,

without much to speak of

other than their passion of choice

once obsession orders their vision



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