Bawdy Count

Persuasive-abrasive, he runs
     blond-mouthed and self-interested
     throughout my southpawed narrative,
     his mind open-fisted, we punch
     cards time offers with limited
     liberty, our satisfaction
     gambled on uninhibited
     passion my hands know attracts him,

every count of hours wasted
     slaughter, death who for a man comes
     with filthy switchblade precision
     to conclusions libertines spit,
     tempestuous eyes snowballing
     the snuff we pinch, taking from it
     red-lit scenes bleeding emotions
     decency says we shouldn’t let

tempt us, yet one night’s bothersome
     itch with relentless-coercive
     kiss, stings to palpable blemish
     what bruise in my delirium
     I permit his stigma to hit
     without guilt my pale existence
     can detect, sin onto my flesh
     as if tailored to wear his hands

since love is unjust until stripped,
     that garment covering broken
     souls, packaging bones thrust open
     in those moments rogue pugilists
     pound to a pulp their opponents,
     burning to torn paper epic
     episodes of men sentiment
     eludes, we dudes who fuck instead.