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i rather like the taste of men
on the brink of something.
mere seconds away.
i like the brininess of their belly.
the dead drop to their pelvis
and i so like it when
my gaze is in grease dollops
cut, by morning, onto their thighs.
this is no accident, because god creates
for worship and i am meant to be.
god creates me right now and tomorrow
and if you ask him, he will tell you that
i am no light touch, no wind-chime
brush in the mississippi november.
i am a rollicking thing.
i lean on you like truants on brick walls
chew up all the toothpicks
of all the diners from here to oakland.
i drum the earth with a flex as
tense as a cymbal and recline
in the suddenness of peeping eyes.
i will cut my teeth on you,
romp to the city of men,
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