3 poems by James Maxwell

The Greyhound Grimaces

The laziest of thoughts on a

Silently rolling Greyhound bus

Losing my eyes to the

Coming of dawn, shedding

Blue cloaking catacombs over

Hulking fists of hills and the

Bales of hay that lay

Rotting in the east as

Sun comes to rest, slipping

Behind the horizon like

Butter melting into

The earth

Saturating other lands and

Leaving her eyes all

Like mine

The Heart & the Hand

Why is it

That I always feel the urge to write

After cumming into a crumpled kleenex,

The paper soft and cupped on my cock like an

Angel’s wing?

The key to a million other futures,

Soggy, sopped up soul,

Mopped up and sucked down the shitter.

It doesn’t look very beautiful on paper

But it is

Beautiful, I mean.

Fogcup

The fog hangs heavy,

A chalice of ghosts!

And now the earth sips

Wearily at memory, hoping

God will permit it.

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Published by

Jeremiah Walton

Jeremiah Walton is wary of writing a bio.

3 thoughts on “3 poems by James Maxwell”

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