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Men make the world old, grown cold and weary,
leaving sick whelp hearts that kink cannot change.
Half-men sing half-blues about their half-cocks
and all the little joys, wet as cyclone
dreaming, sucked deep from yarrow-marrow bone.
My real Spanish fly, you in your dreadlocks
and I is I, a sign not there. Our strange
anthem: him a’hymn, her love drug dirty.
Kinky pigs have the blues before sunrise,
up in their tawny tongues. A song that longs.
Leather warthog, gutting out like one sighs
a song, cyclone that blows between the songs:
“Gimme a lovesick call. Blues before swine/
Nothing, no nothing, will ever be mine.”
