My my who tells the tales?
The elaborate johnny walker way,
corporal dodgeball stayed on stride-
my my who rakes the age,
who shapes the leg
for their cotton arms to pluck, to tuck
the cushion where my back will rest
though my arms won't stray
from the lethe of your soft leafing urge,
from the sap of your prick,
from the fireplace of your lips
that run flyby agendas
of such dark dignity that stylized
the breath out of caving sun-dust,
grabbed to deify, the only role
we've assumed is to die right,
in arms, shut-eye tight.