Lush
Baby, maybe
you ought
to drop
the violin,
maybe your hands
should wrap themselves around
the red and green
wreath
on your brow,
pluck the plump
juicy
balls of poison
bowing its stems
by drawing purple
lines about your
neck,
swallow
and regret
for only a moment -- then maybe
those holly sapphires glowing
Star-of-Bethlehem-like
on your thick brow
has, at last, turned you,
Santo Niño, man,
and I
your violin case,
your crown,
woman.
Seven
Seven means the chariot
on which a triumphant prince
rides into his city, wets
the faces of the women with
tears -- the men who march behind
look around with hungry eyes
while the bellend blindly smiles.
Baby, maybe
you ought
to drop
the violin,
maybe your hands
should wrap themselves around
the red and green
wreath
on your brow,
pluck the plump
juicy
balls of poison
bowing its stems
by drawing purple
lines about your
neck,
swallow
and regret
for only a moment -- then maybe
those holly sapphires glowing
Star-of-Bethlehem-like
on your thick brow
has, at last, turned you,
Santo Niño, man,
and I
your violin case,
your crown,
woman.
Seven
Seven means the chariot
on which a triumphant prince
rides into his city, wets
the faces of the women with
tears -- the men who march behind
look around with hungry eyes
while the bellend blindly smiles.
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