Death; ; Married'; Death With The Dead Poem by James McLain

' death; ; married';
death off with the dead and death looks at each flower
and shouting this time that it's you,
I am beautiful, look at it, look at it please, it bleeds.
look at-here me you must, come to eat me, thorn ed alive.
Plains of death, smiling, never makes an attempt,
always going in going out through the rear near you,
going to take you home, coming to a place with you.
White is the chubby and fat you knowing that when,
important which that thing.. of which of it when touches,
it soon also, comes to the middle at night and *sigh*.
Death is love, love is death, which are you both, come
like death too your pig you eat growing bloated in thee.
and the death of pink lovers your familial animal shriek
as mountains those pearls put out of that bag ghastly flying.
Death moves in then death never happy to move out.
Slapping you forever about your red face, death spent.
Death is a dry cracked nipple, deep in raw rubbing sleep,
being held above it to suck off the rank butter milk
with the flesh and it's juice clumped, floats up' flows away.
Slightly open with this how' it feels, always draining.
Death is a fixed ball, never moving,
why done around slow movements, of the world you by him.
Death is a voice always nearly you ignored completely,
setting off alarms to the deaf
with each and every death walks through the street erect
knowing you and death dreams of it, here is the contract.
Look at both of your options without any one member, decending.
while you come running very quickly outside through,
the snow just to stop in the medium and to wait, returning.
Death is a woman, who is insane,
thinking that the world is her spiral rotation in its coffee.
Death with all the men who think they can save each woman by disturbing death and by eating cold sandwich with tunas.
Dignify death you, you l' liked, now deaths finger buzzes you,
leaving the bee exposed on the flower, you, my Bonnee.
Death'; S have the flower is always soft and intense on you.
It is always open for that slow death; odor.............. and it';
red alarms of Sex that you mixed with it,
you were ware of it… here it never is only it just comes….
to see you as you really are….in the throws of it..
open for busyness... tightly closed for any other but death.