torn labels

twenty-three and lying                                            flesh
                                                                                        YsunnY
                                                                                           poolside
                                                                                                   rosedale

~ eight-thirty / ce matin… flamingos riot
                                                             as my hole turns

black porcelain coffee
                &  Roquefort
                                lime-green bikini she waltzes out and
hands me
Center                                 before jump
Shouts: “he’s from your town”                   ing splash

my silvery smooth eyes fjord                          
across his white see                                           
                        saw                                    
                           spaces                                

soft chards of metallic          skull          
float through the sapphire    pool               
towards                               my  
golden-haired                       cock                                                        
of age /                                    /
welcome to sex @ thirty-8 realize it’s never too early in the day
to worry ( thanx for that )  cuz        tap
in there         is something wrong
or else don’t         bring it up ~ great!so now let the sub
conscious sub
mission
set in                                      apparently not the bangbang I know
                                               now there’s more    a focus on flavescent                           
                                            affections
 / house improvement starts sawing at eight sharp
                sounds
                and fuck the sun is hot
the coffee’s hot hot       /  over the sea of hunched bodies , all across this country
                                                                                                                                                                         

[ thot I
escaped that
little thot  
town ]

in his poet trace among the pathless regions of my mind    
                                                                                the point where it doesn’t make a difference
                                                                                ya man where is (princegeorgelondontorontojapan)
sun-stuck and pressed in a deckchair
SILENCE lengths swimming lime-green ; in his small white spaces I
smile
but not so much
as to laugh     
!hammer&nails!hammer&nails!       

# posted by hardyf : 20:31