1 David e. Patton email@example.com
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When the mechanized voices are grinning In the middle the sun here is my fetus
When the mechanized voices are grinning When the mechanized voices are grinning out the milk of human kindness to breast feeding the over endowed society where the children are for sale beneath the hours that run like rabbits from the bee-eye beast of superstition caught in the hands of the elders who drink the needs that we keep secret against a thousand wants buried in the flesh of the city with its sacrificial sky as weak as the last prayers whispered beneath artificial stars Then the fountain of a womanâ€™s weakness will spring forth into the silent and shattered the wisdom of an egg In the milk of human fading dreams the gasoline scented air roam between the breaths discarded by crying children who drink the rain from the air before it hit the pavement made of windows where the river of dead rain runs down the serrated pane of slow liquid glass. In the milk of human tongues 1
that cut like knifes the children of man nickel and dine the worn soul of the moon here is to be found the aluminum excrement of a throw away society that imprison the humming birds in the red color of a coke can. The dead take their silent with them into the grave yard of plastic. In the milk of human insanity the stone mother of the Gods is silenced by the ignorance of the bellowing clacks of fishes swimming toward the divine light of oblivion when the wet earth shoulder the thirst of tenderness and the crying children are trembling in their skin beneath the desert chaotic clear sky of emotional clergymen who wrestle with the angels to pluck their ivory feathers with hands of fiddles that pray for forgiveness of their executive sins committed against the machinery of the church that is built on the edge of the inscription of the holy flowers that arch their backs against the descriptive winds blowing lost prayers toward the difficult anguish of the blueprint of horses galloping toward the astonished sunlight of the university where is taught the dazzling tongue of the blind massesâ€™ needs to belong to the imagined affectionate religious of the Jesuit. In the milk of human possibility money darken the door of the demagogue where the church going termites eat the cross and the atheist ants drink the holy water of a babyâ€™s tear spilled in the baptism basin where is collected the stained teeth of sorrow speechless of blood it exhale the Gothic billboards selling the cement and concrete landscape of the zoo where the trees are speechless in the noisy reality of the mechanical city of the dead rusting red if an hind end.
In the middle
In the middle of the flow the where we all must go in the center of the row the what of what we hoe to the right the time lividly lived by and by by likes the passing of a life to the left what is left but the cause that causes our death to carry on.
the sun the sun is my friend and she demands nothing of me the trees are dearer still being new breath closer they makes amend for what I can not feel the moon I love as I am a silver man not one of gold for now it stays above all human's fray the earth is my catch all even flesh and bones when we fall Nature is my given God she herself gave to me not to control the impossible she does not ask for things like begging under the guise of praying to some that be fine still she care for me as she care for all creatures none best over all none is put above or below her common cause.
here is my fetus
here is my fetus here is my newborn here the reasons why I am not called a son that I was of his flesh as if I was the maleficent conception yes I am holy but no more or less then holy you in who you be as your me Yes I am loved but not as my father's son. For years I burned for years consumed to belong to you to woo your love but it was not to be you died in your death and the hatred stayed alive within me now I am as old as I got to be and live my life in peace and not what should have been because what if never was so can never again. -