He speaks of the hurt

He speaks of the hurt

I knew a man,
name was Jimmy gone get me,
lived down red shack lane,
kept a gerbil on a wheel,
a big-hair pinup on a wall.

I knew this guy,
name of Jimmy gone get me.
I see’m there shuffle down
the big-rock white road–
that alley way back ‘hind
the red brick row houses
three stories tall
ripples off red brick plant–
fackry big as the town.

I knew this guy,
Jimmy gone get me
gett’in older in the alleyway.
“Boys,” he says–
back then we were white
and our hair all soft
straw falling odds and evens–
“Yer jus boys–lads really–.
Ye can’t grasp it. Naw, can’t.
Still, all the same;
I’m gonna tell you
’bout this hurt.”

It seems it was wide
and deep
and sick
and old
and locked
and stored
and kept
and rich
and loud
and angry
and pathetic
and impossible
and proud
and desperate
wolf caught in a trap,
and gnawing half-heartedly
at its poor befangled

But it was also a form of radiation that blared from his gut through his chest, shoulders, neck, head, eyes–blared out a kind of aching nausea full of shame and confusion, full of trick mirrors and deadend plywood mazeways in a dusty rickety shack sprawling on and on, always expanding more so as to keep you full on lost–no matter how you rushed and raced and tried–oh you tried!


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