i.

Slamming p(a)lates,
          siroccos of pestilent tongues
establish their
          sweating perspective, mouths drier
than Hell’s open
          without ceremony the sore
glory of their
          scorching holes, presenting treasures
wanderers such
          as I search for, Bedouin lips
parting like torn
          linen rip skin, extravagant
tents blush wind-worn,
          summoning in we borderless
immoralists
          with sin’s scorched arrays of red b(r)ush,
voyeurs’ eyes crushed
          to dust like pearls only raw flesh
could imitate
          with such dye, each day’s death too late
to paint smiles on
          those faithless explorers who p(r)ay
to be favoured
          with discovery in foreign
lands ignored by
          rain, those same professors who pour
praise on ancients,
          oblivious to love’s language—

                    ii.

Crashing table(t)s,
          he tells me how severely he
wants it, and I
          let him have it, smashing to ash
that ass of his,
          fragments of fantasies my past
resurfaces,
          our faces monumental as,
like polished stones,
          eyes rolling like veined marble tell
of epic thrones
          fought for and filled with bones, how men
hold close lovers
          only to discard moments both
seek out, sharing
          their plunder until mo(u)rning moans
its terrible
          rebirth, burning myth to replace
with fire what spent
          desire denies lust’s chroniclers,
details wind spills
          when deserts memorialize
conquests not by
          sparing footprints erasure, but
revealing to
          scholars what wound two sodomites
cauterize with
          a kiss, the kind (t)his tomb preserves.