Maria, desire’s lame twister, get off
My back. When I lie down
I want the grass
Festering in my pores,
But your truck with angels
Hones my shoulder blades. Pia,
You cut me up
The prospect of your calm
Feathers wastes my time.
They’ll never crane me out
Of this mire of whores. I’ve got
Perspective, peering up my alley.
Leave me
Alone.
Isn’t any stretch of imagination
Strain enough to bear a man
Without your leeching at stumps
Of another life,
A fabled creature?
Shove off, Mother, high and dry.
Be happy I like it here
Where chicks don’t skirt the truth,
Where wings fold and break
While the loins shudder
And the trite mudlover broods
On his holy singing.
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