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Don't Take My Luv

from Elevate the Lap by The Good Hard

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lyrics

evryone luvd
the incredible fume ox
which wuzn't really
an ox at all;
it wuz a mucific gallery space
werin sticky brown particulate matter
was swabbed into
the master gland
of the by then extinct
unpedigreed primordial nuisance
to enculturate a
highly charming,
if overplotted,
strain of this talkative
rare slash everywhere
bucolic death rattle.

get in early n we'll sell u
this obscure orifice, securely.

power to the people
from the sperm of the keno eagle.

don't talk to history.
she failed anarchy.

holding yr own hand
n at least stylistically believing
u were still gripping tight
to the part of u that had been
downpaid wen u leased yr first
grope with the pollenating insect mascot
had long since replaced dry humping
yr auto-generated best actor award
to the popular tune of

"O, cum on, my kiddies,
n butt them heads
til yr eyes shoot movies
into the fissipeds
n they kawasaki
with ya, kiddies,
down the littershed."

deth row
don't know
like escargot
the pain inside
my pianissimo.

it was de rigeuer
to give blood to the aperture
of the all-discompassing miniature
whose piratical medium
wuz a critical drip extravagance.

and in the middle of the road
and there wuz only one road
n it wuz calld this ain't the middle of the road
there wuz a road
that everybody rode
toward that unreachable road
in the middle of the road.

wer, running out of friable air,
u set off yr final banksy flair,
n tho i smoked my face to cut the glare,
yr mis-spellt yelp
scented yr delf to my elk
n so another boorish beginning
ended in a boor's unpenning,

as yr lost soul led me
to a break wence i cd see
none of this has to be.

s'obambulated by the undescried,
too interjambed to ever collide,
our bodies won't be identified
til mimesis rise demystified
by the little collapse that lurks in the smutch
that nobody noes cuz it noes too much
save those who fly a deposed aliferous rush
to the overgrown handiwork at the dawn of touch
that tenders us porous, the air our bed,
our dreams a dash thru the overhead,
n the more we metaplast the ostent unforesaid
closer lobes our luv to trilling reeds relinquished.

be the vast includer,
free of the master user,
feel all yr thrills abrood her,
she who fulfills who loose her.

so shall we lay amidst the leaves
that are the tears of chattelled trees
til sighs seize us
cuz the breeze believes us

n rising free to raise the built
off our siblings in the silt
our every move
is an underling in luv.

wer'd the baby mooses go?
who gave the supermodel who ate the rockstar idaho?
wut duz la intimidada noe that we won't noe?
will the feminization of the male gaze merely surrealize the bordello?
y won't the god-damnd monarchs mate on solidago?
is that disjunct btwn tonality and attitude something you'll outgrow?
is this song more maudlin than yellow?
will the desert be saved from destinesia if i hug a saguaro?
how soon til it's bad to swallow?
who told u it wuz ok to play ball in that meadow?
do we really need two words for ego and echo?
wen will shit stop snowing?

how i luv to spoon,
especially wen we're fallin,
into yr coo cocoon
til ya let my server crawl in,
"mommy, may i plant my spinach in yr oily ribs?" (in Arabic)

O drear bored, u deserve this
cuz u preserve us
as a disservice
to the nervous
succulent.

gonna unsour
i'm gonna unsour my heart today
gonna pass out
gonna pass out sum stars today
we got a wile to take too long
let's down a litl smile n sing a sloppy song
bout the time we'd like to see
bein wut will never be
n how that sets us fuckin free,
cuz i'm sick a itchn to get rich off bitchin.

i wanna regift my mother her only child
run the water on rage
that i gathered in tinajas of reconciled,
for wut the world needs now
is for us to need the world
like the be needs the guiled
to re the wild.

it is imperative
to the natural narrative
that we understand
how our firebrand
converts in envy
the joys of generosity
to that torching ochlocrat:
where's my habit at?

don't take my luv.

credits

from Elevate the Lap, released April 10, 2017

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The Good Hard

The Good Hard is playwright, poet, and musician Kirk Wood Bromley's band featuring players and producers in NYC and Arizona. Email the "Contact The Good Hard" link below if you wanna talk.

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