Thirst’s all-in-all in all a world of wet
and you eye my sweat like it’s a sluiceway.
You’re parched. A kiss from me, a drop of sweat,
would heal you. I stink like the gods, decay
in the hereafter. I am rot’s reason;
what the tongue-taught mushroom dreamt about; dreams
about — corrosion. I’m food for famine.
The gods could cure you. See how blasphemes
never felt so good, clit? Charley scrawl, curse
of all that you are, git. You drink and drink
without slack, without their stink. You are drought,
for drought refuses all, even perverse
love. I warn you, if you lick it, that stink
will stay with you, you’ll never wash it out.