WHAT I MEAN
IS TO CREAM YOU
There comes nothing from Nazareth, no good anyway :
the streetlights of that dumpy town still burn tallow,
donkey wax, the creepy drippings for animal assholes.
Every cash register has a man with a checklist right
next to you : like me he has much to say - 'I don't
want to hear about it anymore, I'm tired of what you
say to me. I have to listen endlessly to your stories
of dormers and gutters, things you built with your
carpenter hands. Go away.' Something goes, better
than the quiver of an arrow in the arc of shooting a
bird. Straight and steady, into the target's heart. Like
that, all in this little brown town hold meaning to their
mind and faces as personal things, not worth sharing.
I did, at one point, I admit, love every daughter in this
town. My name is still graffito'd on many a postal-dump
box. no good comes from Nazareth, nothing good at all.
Jacob, just go away. Please go away now.
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