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.