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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.