Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.163

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

The holy spirits of “Christians” are unholy. What day earlier than mid-week did my brother,
the Nazarene call fools of their liking? I am work: I’m always against a force;
 the old black bag, that the spirit always quickens, called me a demon
 because I saw the devil arriving on Sunday mornings in lipstick and rouge, 
and when Rasimong came, “demon possessed,” they were endowed with tongues, 
like California wild fire and pushed him off the balcony, almost to his death.
They did not see the almost murder, ‘cause they were under the influence
of spirits in sizzling mid-summer heat. The preacher grinned 
his yellow, curry-stained teeth and pride himself on the spectacle, 
like his father did before him. My mother-in-law, the bur on my jockstrap,
is an almost murderer, her holy hands were tightly fixed to Rasimong’s private allotment.
Don’t take this straightforward; I have more than a bur in my jockstrap, a Colt 45
with barrel, cold, resting on the head of a snake; a python, as damaging as the serpent in Eden. 
Let’s recoup from unnecessary tidings. Before Rasimong flew like shot pheasant
and landed inches from a merciless metamorphic rock, I could smell the blood 
gushing from his almost cracked skull and marveled at who their god …is not

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required