This Poem was Submitted By: James C. Snowden On Date: 2001-04-18 21:56:47 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Genet's Laundry

More, there is no doubt more. It grows so unnaturally crooked, the first who never mouthed lies, whose tongue felt useless and smooth, who conceals the moon on his back-- all systems of healing, all mapped seasons for the naked. I am summer.  The oceans lost Neptune: I am white around the mouth. I see how my lungs are pitiful. I see how my sweat orbits the feel of a real man's spine, that normal account of need, then the exhale of an athletic  headdress, then those giant feet. I will not look or move. I cannot breathe. The seconds will respond with his speech long and confident. Imposter! He licks the surface of my skin, hoping to appease. I want to feel. My fist makes a prisoner. My thumb makes him starve with criminals, with heroes. Everyone is gasping.

Copyright © April 2001 James C. Snowden

Additional Notes:
Jean Genet (1910-1986) French writer, convicted felon, who as a dramatist became one of the leading figures in the avant-garde theatre. Genet has described in his works the underworld, male prostitutes, convicts, pimps and social outcasts. Genet's life changed radically when such prominent figures as Jean-Paul Satre and Jean Cocteau clamored successfully for his parole. He sub- sequently left the criminal world to become a writer. However, Genet was for a long time so addicted to theft that he stole diamonds from his hostesses at a literary reception. (All punctuation is intended.)


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