Zonkered on bam bhosda, dust and cacao,
we lay in my backseat, cantaloupe ripe,
fragrant with cum and resin. What comes now
is what comes from gin, acid, a glass-pipe
marking out time during your late lunch hour.
August is the most lecherous of months.
Your, “dedo mi coño” — as I devour
you, pressed to my lips, my knuckles red blunts
stained deep inside — is more a foul-mouthed sigh.
In an hour we can accomplish so much
save the pauses in-between drags, swallows
and groans. With a wet-wipe you clean your thigh;
crawl to the front-seat to add blush, retouch
your lipstick, avoid your cocaine-ruined nose.