By Devil lyn

    we are buried in the bark ferments of forest stills
where lynching`s hang like gala apples from trees;
your fingers fondle my sugars ~ swap gossip weep
like molasses...
I can smell your moonshine pricked
on the pores of your liver`d tongue,
sweet cattle feed
and you tell me I'm worth it
lying athe~esq on a backwoods pew, my body the Eagle
swerves through the church`s Christian
but I'm not pure without my communal wafer ~
sins feel un~washed, un~erased
like priests who fail to wash their hands
after a good damning.


Unauthorized Copying Is Prohibited. Ask the author first.
Copyright 2016 Devil lyn
Published on Tuesday, November 15, 2016.     Filed under: "Horror" and "Poetry"

Author's Note:

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Comments on "distillette"

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  • A former member wrote: you sure got a purty mouth for spittin poems...such sacreligion gonna get struck by white lightning...doin the lords work on the backwoods pew...under the moon's reflective shine...very appleacian spring-esque....seems a bit like a deliverance...HM Xie Xie!

  • Bornfrompain On Tuesday, November 15, 2016, Bornfrompain (862)By person wrote:

    I had to bookmark this!!!! - BFP

  • Lab Rat On Tuesday, November 15, 2016, Lab Rat (152)By person wrote:

    this almost feels like trespassing, leaving comment, as if this is not for me. Though I'd do myself a disservice if I didn't. I like this, quite alot, the murk of it, the lament of it. Thank you

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