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Ad patres el prostitute (Free verse) by <{Baba^Yaga}>

At the back door of a church on Sunday. In an alley off of St. Andrews, again. Beating off the cold stink he is waiting. For father to find him a hot viand & coat. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Silently, he eats with both hands faster then it takes the priest to swallow along with him. The staticy air gets more tolerable as both decide to loosen up the other's collar Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Underneath a full moon, but still dusking. He notices that brother and sister are sharing the same sky. Just as the fire drowns down into a dark blue expanse of rippless heart-ache. Wait son, do not yet close thy eyes. Hungry again, but too exhausted to search any further then the edge of a playground. Near the beach and his Father's Mission Bells sing to him, tonight he shall have sleep. Now son, you may close your own eyes.

Jeremi B. Handrinos 23-Feb-03/7:01 PM
If you really believe what you have said here, than you have a lot to learn about a lot of things. Pandering to an audience? Are you fucking high? What audience? What scorn? Nobody is scorning the male prostitute here... He is just letting go like he came in. There is nothing to do with comedy, or somehow how making the reader laugh to somehow then regret their laughter. Tell me this, When you shit at the toilet do you draw a fucking blueprint with an agenda about how your ass will feel when coming face to face with it's reflection? i doubt it, so why do it here, or period. It's not meant to be that complicated. Fuck, no wonder you are socially shunned. Now if this poem was about oil painting i would lend you a few more moments, but it's not, so piss off (aids? do you even know anyone with aids idiot? SHUT THE FUCK UP!)




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