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Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.

Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.


Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,

twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.


Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr

hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely


stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour

of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,


me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want

to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.


Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn

and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt


haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,

like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.