Bang on the Table
encrustment of ruin
and coating and
spaces between bones
your rawest material
the desire of a ghost limb
shining a smile wet
with spermicide
like some vacuum packed animal
your eyes distort my haunches
your cannibalistic thoughts
wrapped around
that band of muscle
my hand my hand
your clubbed fist
bang on the table
my tidy mouth
clasping scarlet
you yelping
death was a fantasy
death was a fantasy
Cream Clock
The body could
be an index
if stretched
a little
pulled
from
the buckle
under
a studied
clasping
pushed harder
it becomes
a phrase
develops a
rhythm with
arches
to a pause
references
overlap
blend simulate
stimulate
soften folds
to palm
to grow to
groan
to cock to
crow my
throat-
a serpent
swallows
clocks of
cream
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