Promise of rain never came. Heat soaked up
in the pavement. In the trees. In my skull,
all pinned and needled together. Adult
subject matter means just one thing. Gristle
and shanks, you write about cum and moisture
and things you think I want to hear –– the ride
high and holy, my face comely in painsure,
feeling me harden even more inside
you. But that’s not me. When I say I ache
–– that’s just literal. When I say I’m more
scars than skin –– if you’d seen me naked you’d
agree. And this trapped heat? It’s the earthquake
that leaves you in rubble. Last god of gore.
No rain but eruption. Grotesque when nude.