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Array
(
[sid] => 11041
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Yours--with SEX
[time] => 2003-01-23 15:20:00
[hometext] => Topic proven to increase audience by 50% or more
[bodytext] => Language is metal and ore and
poets, deformed John Henrys with clumsy sledgehammers, hit the old results and watch a nail bend One track. There is love in heaven and the baby Jesus has us so much that he will throw us back down, filling families with love and delight radiating, allowing us one or more orgasms if we died untimely. Friends are the conduits. It is good enough for Christ, who smiles every second, twitching only to show that he is still in motion. He'll get us back up soon enough pole and string under his arm. Two tracks. Roses as liquid, a million droplets right enough. The bait-and-switch. "I can't promise you this, but but THERE-- I can promise you THAT" with a flourish. A small globe soaked in red, thorns buried in soggy continents Fingers slip reddened off the globe and a pile of chocolates mute the stains. Third tracks are for third wheels. The body transmutes into the bruise, the bruise becomes the thought, the thought transfigures itself and we stare into a pool. We are reflected, more dim then the original-- Refraction casts us about the lake in thin dark slivers. Tracks lay in one line, taller then they should be. Nails are driven to cover a two-thirds empty and the rails are fused violently [comments] => 0 [counter] => 170 [topic] => 25 [informant] => omid_tone [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => MiscPoems )
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