The cleave of your thigh is perfumed by something I am allergic to.
A large hit to my solar plexus for going down on you!

Custard-blonde tendrils dangle before me
Like a field of yaks, grazing tentatively upon your ****** back.
Lately they have been tumbling out spectacularly in clumps of fibre,
Forming barley or shellac-colored runes in the shower.

While cleaning the drain, mistakenly I
Touched a pale Daddy-long-legs that was crushed into a polka dot,
And let out a deafening scream
For you to stomp on its itsy-bitsy corpse till your footsoles wore brick red fishnets.
Then, left with only seven legs to lift its ***, it’d gone down like a ******.

After gazing into one’s lashless mung bean eyes,
I think I am going mad as the house flies
Who pivot into glass to pass their time,
Self-contained and distended as ostrich eggs

A pack of pipe cleaners expertly twist into
Some itching bouquet of flowers
How can you blush just at the view
Of rosy strangers that eschew you

Being far away as a vacation destination
Locked in a fridge magnet, where for weeks
Summer heat like aftosa
Spread over your butter-yellow cheeks

Drops of pool-blue in a ***** ravine
Poorly polished toes bristle
Abjectly against a palette of olive-skinned
Limbs closing in like shingles on a roof

Plucking pestilent hairs from your nostril
Can make you feel important for years
The hearing aid wolf-whistles once
As you explode into tears

LEAVING    /    HOME
----------------------------------
Can’t believe / I’ll possibly get used to

Your aversion; / This treatment, or feeling

I’ve known all / Too well; of

Your negligence, & more, / Your delicacy,

With which I used to coexist —/ It is

Unimaginable, yet / Something more

Real / Than I’ve ever seen.

Your mealy curls are a nest of black ants squashed to death
In bed and drowning
By the hill of sweat between us

How do moist lips running across my own feel
Hegemonic and corroded as machinery

One cigarette to my name – a
Last crackling ray of sad brevity, inspired voraciously
Like a Hail Mary for an epilogue of warmth.
Embrasuring the atmosphere with its release;
She's the grace at the tail of a long day.

A diffident claim of the litre of liquid that singes my face.
Or an interjection, on the stiletto-edge of oppression,
Like the load of hands, flush against my iliac crests, like reins.
Not leading to any transaction
Through licking clean the wounds of a lifetime
That hurt with or without you.
(There’s a softer spot than the one you spoil for yourself.)

Her prized pink nose is fatty as an almond,
Yet it hardly hides the bone,
Allowing it to snap as giddily as a wafer.
As she races traffic, the waving flags turn the
Blinding white of a hot gun barrel.

What audacity's in that self-expression
But begging to be recalled beyond a crumpled chassis;
What power’s in the craft of self-destruction
Debased by something as soft as sympathy?
Her redemption and own enlightenment only
Lives through mockery. A natural disaster is her name

For impotence, a gripping horror;
Inexorably image-perverting, like
The ashes of the ******* ancient in Pompeii –
There are no do-overs for dumb *****.

“Don’t make fun of my night out.”