Out of Place
questions lurch,
born in cocktails
with lewd names.
those of us with minds
as guarded as soda water
do not know the answers.
we appraise wastelands
of sassy youth,
wanting to be part of the grunt,
but unable to sway
like these sexy philosophers,
who broach casual taboos
and do not sing of fear.
we stare
as if stunned by godlings
agile and immune.
how easily
they stalk pleasure for hours,
devouring each other,
chasing necks.
when they die
they moan up again, half destroyed,
and the rest lovely, toned,
supple with war.
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