Innard Yank
If I dug your eye out with a soup spoon, would you hate me back?
Trampled undersight but never tricked that far off track
In an innard yank you only pull what gives and groans
Like a dentist who pokes past the teeth and grabs a bone
In the forest of my armpit the greenhouse effect
Hasn't happened Boris Yeltsin said he may defect
Unfamiliar rhythms glisten through the choky murk
Rabid underside — to think the law just got off work
Haven from the safety of a sluggish baritone
You would rather have a diamond than an ice cream cone
This is war, this isn't fun with libidinal trends
And the reverb of a boat oar may well make amends
Lay your soaking finger along the rim of the glass
Though a tad off-key, the nature will take you to task
I digress, I guess, because I'm slightly impotent
And a furrowed brow reminds me your antenna's bent
I pretend to laugh, but there's no non-black humor here
Everything I say leaves skidmarks in your inner ear
All the wells and ums and anyways smell like bad beef
It's the sin accommodative that's giving me grief
The rouge — it breaks like capillaries on your cheeks
Innard yanking has its valleys and it has its peaks
Such a cool receptacle as you have deigned to be
Your metabolism's vulgar, but it beckons me
Haven't wept like this for anything since I was twelve
Now your apathy must take my old place on the shelf
© 1992 John Brocato
Trampled undersight but never tricked that far off track
In an innard yank you only pull what gives and groans
Like a dentist who pokes past the teeth and grabs a bone
In the forest of my armpit the greenhouse effect
Hasn't happened Boris Yeltsin said he may defect
Unfamiliar rhythms glisten through the choky murk
Rabid underside — to think the law just got off work
Haven from the safety of a sluggish baritone
You would rather have a diamond than an ice cream cone
This is war, this isn't fun with libidinal trends
And the reverb of a boat oar may well make amends
Lay your soaking finger along the rim of the glass
Though a tad off-key, the nature will take you to task
I digress, I guess, because I'm slightly impotent
And a furrowed brow reminds me your antenna's bent
I pretend to laugh, but there's no non-black humor here
Everything I say leaves skidmarks in your inner ear
All the wells and ums and anyways smell like bad beef
It's the sin accommodative that's giving me grief
The rouge — it breaks like capillaries on your cheeks
Innard yanking has its valleys and it has its peaks
Such a cool receptacle as you have deigned to be
Your metabolism's vulgar, but it beckons me
Haven't wept like this for anything since I was twelve
Now your apathy must take my old place on the shelf
© 1992 John Brocato