To every man my so-called “way-with-words”
has made “go wild,” those ones shouting
“O, Jonathan!” and “Go harder!”—
                                                            some more of that verse blurring “high” and “low” art—

                                                            *

                                                            Pelts of our chests pressed together like Velcro,
we tell our Selves this is enough,
                                                            if two souls touch lips and kiss and it compels
another sweaty traveler
                                                            from his balmy distress to never react
but just let love’s leather melt off,
                                                            its armour to tarnish, to open, before
it rusts, his heart’s zipper and his
                                                            quest to failing, to falling off its path deep
into this moment, for honey
                                                            to wet wagging tongues with playful drippings of
delayed danger, for beads of crushed
                                                            fragrance to lick and wash our wounds some shadow’s

                                                            *

ecstatic thrusts never let us
                                                            close, to impale our reluctant glances on
weeping candles and inhale all
                                                            the damage like incense, hell’s menacing hounds
growling and growing whole again
                                                            after taking in from this holding of each
other’s scent what elsewhere we could
                                                            never savour, to taste bitter tears of ink
flavouring every drop of
                                                            blurred flesh we will not let go of or to waste,
to pay for freedom with fears we
                                                            sink into blue-eyed lies pacing onto fresh
paper, spittle of prayers our pants

                                                            *

                                                            paint with ancient spices tasting of tonight,
weeping tales of crusades we braved,
                                                            pillows talking of knocking boots and bruises
tracing them in perfumed whispers,
                                                            taking turns and our specious time to wait for
tomorrow’s sobering breaking
                                                            of this ritual’s fragile wafer, two men
playing dumb, saying nothing as
                                                            we hesitate to wake, to lay our pieces
here together until daylight
                                                            enters, its mourning’s warmth wafting into these
arrogant mouths echoing soft
                                                            laughter, the pulling-out and apart what makes

                                                            *

real this presence we shatter, gods
                                                            unable to come again, not until those
cold flames of every morning-
                                                            after give up on ghosting us and, instead,
eat our bodies like bread, starving
                                                            armies of lost partners following the crumbs
of which our memories tiptoe
                                                            where thoughts dare not tread, skeletons of conquests
we boned crawling forth out of their
                                                            coffins and closets, those misfits and what-ifs
marching in, wearing holes in our
                                                            stage-clothes, over-studied pages offering
unspoken promises to minds

                                                            *

                                                            questioning our motives, slow hands searching our
consciences for lone, lingering
                                                            misgivings wandering and wondering, both
your head and my own seeking to
                                                            resurrect and reminisce with the spirit
of this lost weekend spent in our
                                                            future’s empty beds, our last sighs throwing stones
somewhere between the silver and
                                                            the mirror vanity ignores in looking-
glass homes, no rest or remorse for
                                                            blasphemy’s devout bastards going at it
after communion, asking for
                                                            more as if ashes could handle scars once scorched.