In bloom. In bed. What is it that brogue brings
to you? Listen, can you hear distant moans?
Gods talk. When the air thickens and then swings
around you, when you feel deep in your bones
a wild itch for something more, that’s language,
love, each curious word. If it were fruit
you’d suck them dry, lick at the wet cleavage
juicy sounds make, each temblor’s bloom. What root
buried itself here? What sublime ache? Bloom,
baby, bloom: disco inferno. Now rogue
gods talk through you; their lexicon unique,
chaotic, but still you know. You know. Womb
words. You speak them. In bed. In your rough brogue.
You’re the translation, love –– what the gods speak.