absinthe, erotic poetry, jazz, masturbation is the door we all need to pass through, poem, shuffle shlick, sonnet, twilit
There were no strange colors in the streetlight.
No wet streets. No musk. No absinthe twilit
in jazz. No moon above roofs like a blight
in the sky. Just you, dead thing; while misfit
living things went flitting around inside
their hells. They make hell home under their skin
for their frail godheads; call themselves, “Brides
of,” and claim that shuffle-shlick is a sin.
Now it’s too late, dead thing, to place my hands
around their cunts and squeeze until their lips
form a heart. How the living waste living
astounds … even in this city’s wastelands.
Shuffle-shlick while the cum on your hand drips
since there’s nothing but you, dead thing, cumming.