08 March 2011


i forget these days of hard
hot reds, tasting you
then rolling thin sticks of wet tarmac splashes
and the velvet cumin seed rushes
or a bitter toast of us in the coastal soak
now we're building holes in each others breath
tight-walkin branches of body-parts
each limb lithe and taut, flexed in the sunlight sweat
our turgid secrets spent, thrust deep
and in the glass city of blisters
we've lost count of the times
we've fucked
each other

1 comment:

Jackson said...


'thrust' is a bit obvious, but.