Mom, Was Jesus A Skinner? - A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne - Appreciate Language and Form through the Best Contemporary Poetry

It Listens,
Long Waxed-Legged Like In Dali,
Carnivorous On Its HindSight While Footing Fifty,
No Dead Skin Upon Its Elbows,
Floating Its Heels ALong The Linoleum Slide,
No Pores WithIn Its Face,
It Does Not Breathe To Subsist…
…
It Can Bend Its Knees Back,
When Under The Bridge,
To Tease Curfew InTo Its Open Skirt,
Playing In Limbo Rouged As Any Bimbo Bell-Ringer Could,
Kneeling For The Knell To Deliver…
…
To Pucker Up A Golden Arch… Or Suck Around The Clap…
…
…
Opaque And Split-Second Quick,
Sticking Its Mouth Through The Threshold,
Its Body Invisible To All But Its Fraternity,
With A Flower On Its Cap… Or Several Inches Beneath The Rafters,
Hidden By The Whites Of Its Lies…
…
It Pokes And Molests Those Sleeping,
As Diplomacy Watches From A Bubble…
…
…
It Hatches New Goofs For Its Nursery Terns,
Boxing The Ears For X’s And O’s,
Then It Disappears From Breakfast For The Chance Of Trickle-Down,
For A Drip-Feed From Sourced Code To Hack And Conquer…
…
Then… Ascot-Cotton’d Or Scarf-Silken’d Or Neck Bared,
It Returns To SweetTalk Those By The SideWalk…
…
…
And, With No Bicycles Constructed Tall Enough For Its Shadow,
The Skinner Leans Chainless Against The Back-Drop,
Easeing InTo The Bricks For Its Mother Of Periphery,
As It Allows For Distraction To Wipe Its Collar Clean.