[cur][tailed]

21 Tuesday Aug 2018

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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.

shushing-slush

20 Monday Aug 2018

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Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow

downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem

 

lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.

Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.

 

Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No

sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —

 

that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow

maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee

 

as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.

Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”

 

This is a game. I play to win because

you play to lose. To be used on impulse

 

with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.

Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.

scrum

18 Saturday Aug 2018

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Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise

you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”

 

“Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s

face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”

 

“B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy

hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.

 

Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.

Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls

 

in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained

bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat

 

me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d

“B” on your thigh mean? You never explained

 

standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.

Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.

cinders

13 Monday Aug 2018

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Rive as I reach your core — primordial

fornication sprung from the dripping roots

 

of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal

equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s

 

marrow. I know something about stirring

the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.

 

These scars are not from others. The slicing

of my flesh I do myself, just to pick

 

at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled

that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,

 

Oui, but it can be done. You want passion

and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,

 

packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried

loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.

tatterhood

12 Sunday Aug 2018

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I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s

rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;

 

by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s

massive quaking hills — into your darkness

 

— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.

Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.

 

I must gauge this myth by the span and shape

of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,

 

where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.

To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —

 

to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.

I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way

 

city’s breath makes a park real — or a box

breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.