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Array
(
[sid] => 168381
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => All Things Combusted
[time] => 2011-11-05 23:05:20
[hometext] => This poem may seem ambiguous. I encourage you to make of it whatever you want.
[bodytext] => I split. I have nothing to give to the fascist depressions of my mornings. Zilch in this body of disintegrations and traumas to give to the oppressings I haven’t anything for the psychic muggings. Instead I present blackjacks and dicks in every last face of every last school that drools in its wake victims and fools and devastating insentience of straight and those enduring sieges against the hells of their unknown self their blasphemous diaspora of untold stories and Them robust with ass sores for cathedra and ***** for crowns ! they the seraphs assassinate with hammer blasts ! They helped me instantly to isolation like a kind hunter snapping a deer’s neck. And into me still spills the memories of apples smashed on rocks and undressed feet flapping and eternal summer days of red flowers and Dionysus erupting in congress of copper and bleached white hairs against stomachs and lust-fleet foxes and mazes of wombs from which all things combusted. I burn my black jack it was me too with those seraphs that whispered my disintegration I was a immoral fixate on their figures a sexual spy I was a different breed of hound for feeling alive. In short I was homosexual and lied and our evils are intermingled. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 94 [topic] => 48 [informant] => RickRoss [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )
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