He has this . . . Hunger like
Hurricane Hips interpreting endangered
wanton meanings of lustful touch
Starving eyes wanting

He has this . . Culpable shame
that’s  relative to the Red-Hot Religions
of sailors, muscled maritimes
showers of spit and ****
storms of guy-gravy
and then the little girl inside,
that darling damnation,
leaves him to those parched cats eyes

The panther's eager lips
that somehow rescues him sexually
With cold reptilian offerings
spires and skies which takes him home

away & aware he’s one of them:
chestnuts from china
The Buffalo’s bride
Lost in one salted heavenly hell

He has that . . . Craving,
A ***** for Jackal-harsh joys
but the lipstick love of sinful men
like magnets to his mad blindness
its ***** and biohazard truths
Still resounds in the black poetry
A stain of empty pews

Hearts
designed by desires over
Sins & desperations both
an epic dirge, some think
which will later play in a temple
That will sink darkly, singing
a Red-Hot  requiem reckoning

for all who are
lost in their lust
and the god-awful truth of it,
In beings lost  
Never having even begun
To know Love
Not cross…