You await there
in a bedtime brew
Stagnant to bliss

His steeple pauses
o’er your chapel of
tortured time. You,

unclothed ancient
fortress, a grey stone
carcass hung with

pendulous breasts
dozing by the unlit
fireplace, a

vulva-drought harvest
historical friction
baking your

bulk square eyes
fucked ear sockets,
dreaming of being

- a southern belle sister
Your scrotal teabag face
smeared with the cream of fear

of forsaken doors
hinged and oiled by
Act 20, scene III

Once you were a bright girl
when life gave you a chance to
listen

blinkered, checkered paths
of mine fields
are easily wiggled and

tested negative
by flugalhorn tits
and star-bloom arse

Your brain developed
jam fur in
the kitchen, you gave two acts for this
whilst somewhere locked in a Russian Doll
feet from your senses a surmise has always read:

sex is the hammer that beats the tin

Watching him slaver
you envisage
an office lion
of sorts
but he's skinning as snakes do
(it's probably 10.30 or so)

You have no inclination to disgust,
years of reverence and
suckling on warped stained
glass have potteried
notions of averted eyes
since
shorts with motifs of
piss like
grapefruits and bananas
and oh,
ash on every apron of his
golf course teeth
are purely
symbolic

Bonded like
omelette pugilists
it is the gallish inset
of mother
hanging in humidity
having beaten the
Cheshire Cat at Bridge
Her curse: his relentlessness
Her blessing: his dash

never in two acts
did you ever
buck hips

like this
like this

like the joke you heard
at Bingo

(the clock says 9.30 as the lion
dreams of his gold watch)
night's retirement
greets you with
his
roarless completion

And in Room 18, Star Shade Motel
more than
a thousand roaches
with time to kill
till paradise
have seen it all before

95