Poetry by Tom Pescatore ° Photography by Aparna Mendu
Man, there figures foaming (white) at the mouth,
where do their footsteps lead?
who is pulling their bootstraps in the right direction?
when they look up at sagging bodies in blue suits
is it cock or cunt? with red lip stick each (painted on),
what name do they speak (footprints)?
from their veins how much blood streaks?
where is the land they cover up and drown (curled up)?
Shit, there, cadavers in plastic sheets (body bags) need air,
should we bury them with asses up from ground?
How often should they be fucked (repeatedly)?
who is pulling their bootstraps in the right direction?
when they look down into brown dirt,
will it cake their mouths? disturb the sound?
what name will they speak (when told)?
from their ears how much blood leaks?
what will come of the land they’ve suffocated (in concrete)?
Tom Pescatore can sometimes be seen wandering along the Walt Whitman bridge or down the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row. He might have left a poem or two behind to mark his trail. He maintains a poetry blog: amagicalmistake.blogspot
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