markbousfield

Silvery Green
the sweet meats
with no plates
or fingernailstent canvas over the bones
bones! bones! bones!

silently slithe yellow bus lights
lick my boots
of dust and sworn petrifications
of each of my forms from the past five days

Silhouette silk swathing
the martyr's mother's milk
in blemished calm
the bowl and basket of Germany

Annika-corristika cold on my skin
and moist warm on the nape of my neck
young, tenderish,

sweet meets

lavish desires
the weight of my home on my shoulders
shouldered
at least long enough to (b)eat steak

louche men standing
smiling
smoking
dancing
dialling
kissing
crying,

'hymen ist mein!'
'hymen is mine!'

I gave you the slip
in the field where you parted

blood light in the shards
of heat signature affection

whim legs draped all a-cock over the arm of the chair
non-chalant and moon faced
the Friday boy

Just like looking at God
well... just like it, I swear