Beastly. Impaled and crushed against the wall,
palms flat, slap-slapping out count at each stroke
while gin, the feathered serpent and menthol
pierce you to your core. Tonight we’ll invoke
banjee beats with Verde Viento. Green Fuse.
Arse Elektronika — Between the hips
with four fingers dug deep: we’ll let sweat-ooze
and spit-cum drip down. Gods whose fingertips
touch us leave a mark, the rest leave a sore
bruise. I leave the slamecka: the buildup
to when both your thighs give way, your speech slurs,
and the gods and saints are with you, hardcore.
Slathered in my own saliva, heaved up,
I can balance you on my four fingers.