I have this . . . Hunger
Hurricane Hips that interprets danger
and the wanton meanings of touch

I have this . . . odd guilt
that is relative to Red-Hot Religions
of sailors, muscles, showers of spit and ****
storms of guy-gravy
and then the little girl inside
that darling damnation
leaves me to these parched eyes

These panther's eager lips
that somehow rescue me
in reptilian offerings
spires and skies which carry me home

away, aware I am one of them
chestnuts and china
Buffalo and bride
all in one salted heavenly hell

I have this . . . hunger
a ***** for Jackal-harsh joys
but the lipstick love of men
like magnets to my madness
its ***** and biohazard truths
resounding in my pink poetry

designed by desires
and desperation both
an epic dirge, I think,
which will later play in a temple
a Red-Hot Religion

for all of us
lost in our lusts
and the god-awful truth of it...