Rust is but the beauty
of a woman whose thighs
are a bank of money
at the demons between
the legs of countless men.
Rust is but the beauty
of a deafening country
whose apples and oranges
are deflowered by the mouths of
gluttonous harvesters who plant not.
Rust is but the beauty
of a father who feeds the poor
the flesh of his thirsty trousers
and neglect the needy of his home.
What shall his lots be at dusk?
Rust is but the beauty
of a child whose heart carries
a reckless and harsh boldness
against the dictates of its parents.
Would two mothers birth it at a time?
Rust is but the beauty
of a city of milked honey
where the citizens see-tea not
but the lead-errs gulp milk and honey
till they turn horny in corrupt milks.
Rust is but the beauty
of a preacher who heals in the morn
but loses his soul in the night
into the darkness of sweet deaths,
when no one else watches, but God.