Tags
conversations with imaginary sisters, erotic poetry, pearl's grave eye, poem, saint sloane's burn, salt burn, sea foam and ache, sonnet
A fig cored in the fog’s nest. Sea kelp curls;
pubes with the long voice of water. Your thigh
marked with bruises. Drawn in the sea, the pearl’s
grave eye, in the tip of my tongue. Pinkeye
and cum, suncocked salt water down your throat
until you cough. Spew. Sex affects, you think,
what it touches. Salt stained bloat. Horny goat
weed cast adrift. Such spindrift of your pink
and plum channel wall. All this bliss, you turn
key, you corkscrew, must be out there. Glamour
like the tide. Neither age nor money nor
time shall dampen a good soak. Saint Sloane’s Burn.
You think. You thunk. Before, when you’re older,
salt glass, triton’s tidal fuck, and less sure.
