maybe he left his wedding ring in your **** by accident


that night when you told me
you wanted me to *******
wearing his sordid black suit but  
it was about four sizes too big and his
heart was four rooms too small.

i forget that the anthropoid chassis
possessed no ****** limitations.  

and yet you were there,
wailing out cherries and
casuistry and swollen
macabre in absinthian
vinegar,  wearing the dress
that i hate.

you have weak wrists,  
you bruise by blue tuesdays.


--


maybe i left my gun in your **** by accident

that night when you told me
only love and explosives
got you off. i of course, went
for the least dangerous.

you forget that the anthropoid intellect
possessed no sadistic co-existence.

i'm just an ulcer when i am
inside you.  you scratch me raw
and you make me
take off that face
that you hate.  

my poetry lingers tight-lipped in taciturnity,  
keeping you wet on your deathbed.