Back Home to Georgia

by Sean Kilpatrick

 

an' if you see that horizon
pinchin' up like a nailed eyelid
spin your palms around
somethin' cold and slippery

crusted glow
pinches shut the dawn
forty-seven days
and an inside-out sneeze
had it comin'

no hip grimace
of seaweed teeth reeks
like an old woman's purse
so squeak out your indexes
archive your busted knees
thicker than a lawnmower bag
filled with burnt-down hollers

chase your sex doll
with a wedding ring

its chipper
tease-assed
attic-flavored lips
hungry for touch

and you too man
gotta be thirsty
for some poke
or make do
with a cup
of pillow grab

bang the coffins
until they toss out
wet handshakes

knotted thumbs
will address
my porch
about latex

we smell
we smell
procrastination
running our strokes
back home to Georgia

© 2006 Sean Kilpatrick