"dejeuner" poems
my pocket has one nickel & Mason's has a dime;
a transient, red rubber ball ping-ponging deep faith with & for
carnival trash is what falls from the
raccoon's mouth past three; the midnight tour, troupe, &
egret have plucked my eyes out before petit dejeuner
& have all booked residence with lush vagabonds from
some oasis on the curb of Suburbia, the ottoman wet where
lore slumps the backs of the fairest; where,
beyond equanimity there boons & beckons
tightropes, slacked tension; and where folklore swells
arteries like King Cake; the swamplands have my pocket
picked; pock-marked truants (BOY) fiddling in fours
during school hours, cakey margarine spread all
over their legs as they eat grilled cheese and
become, ****
in the ambrosian daylight fogged out with figgy shade
by thick, carpet-fondling curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
The scratches feel raw
Dirt frames the arches under my nails.
Dirt tastes good on goat cheese with Maldon salt
Our soiled fingers intertwined as you rip your lips into the nape of my neck
Wild blueberries ***** against my belly as you push hard inside me from behind.
We lie slumped, content, complete
The trees forever our silent witnesses
How beautiful it is to **** with you!
To linger, spent, smoking a delicious cigarette
Dizzy on ****** and fresh air.
Bread crumbs, cherries, a used ****** dark chocolate melted, two cigarette butts.
Manet would be jealous...
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC