First came spigoting; twisting inside you
to let the hazed swamp heat out. What was it?
Grinding of hips? A blowtorch? A corkscrew?
Something deep bruised your viscera. Spirit
of cum puddles and sparks, of lewd vapor
and scars. To treat you like fuck meat, sweetly
immature, is an act of faith. Skewer
you raw, on hands and knees, that’s prayer. Knock-knee
and splayed hip; your fingers warped the bed sheets.
What dripped was a muddied drop. We giggled
to be so nasty, goblins damned. Bare-legged
and backside, we, “shudder’d at it,” as Keats
would say. We have craved and beseeched and yowled
for each thrust — blood fueled by gin and acid.