Set on an even lonelier pasture
On the edge of a lonely road’s end
There is a cliff
The colors of all this
Dusky grey
Damp green
Clapboard white
Inside that shy old building
A lonely man
Weeping
The sound filled the nave
no one heard a thing
It was the savior being spoken to
Plead with
When the man was a little boy
This nave was a chamber
A killing field
That this one priest used when ruminantly rut
Like a drunken teensy stag might be
In order to have himself a gay ‘ol time.
“A right bit of old rumpo,” for that Irish priest.
“A right bit of old rumpo,” for that Irish priest.
The man was bringing his sorrows to the place where it began,
And to have a sit-down with the King.
Who saw it all.
And didn’t do shit about it.
Yet wants him to keep selling his apples
On the corners.
I suppose yer right.
I could have used a little help.
Ya know…
Thanks for letting me get it all out
It gets like a volcano inside
Scares me
I sleep funny
But the access to you
It never goes away.
You can bank on it, kid-Maxim.
All ya got.
gish bian
7 april 2019
4:55 pm mst usa
Doris?
Yea, Honey?
We watchin’ a flick ta night?
Uh-huh.
Which one?
Bambi & the Killer Whale’s Stew, on fire.
I like that movie, Shoog.
I picked it out. Just fa you.
I sure love ya, Doris
I know you do, Harry.
(no funny business when it comes to Doris, and the child-molesters. she’d have ‘em catrasted. every other Thursday at noon. like clockwork)
fin
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