Trepanned: a holed skull. Lulled by the bubble-
blown glass bong that we traded back and forth,
fingers touching. You blew into my skull,
the hole all smoke. Your stoop was 5th and North;
you pressed with your nail deep into my pink.
Everyone laughed making my thigh spasm.
Shamans did this to talk to the gods, link
themselves up to the divine. I’m just numb
from too much faith that even King Tut weed
can’t calm. You waggled your thumb in and out.
My bones hurt — “Then am I/ a happy fly?”
Papa Blake asked, since maggots breed
in here and with my gape I’m a devout
trepanned mystic, one with a cum-soaked thigh.