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.