Two Labourers

There pivots in place of a wrist
two broken men moving up, then
down, an hour of hands whose deal they
resist, edging to the bare brink

as if satisfaction delayed
gifts masochists fistfuls of grist
to wind even those whose mills grind
to dust every hardship’s think

doubt troubles thoughts with, worry this
thick urges to fits of itch each
one’s burdens until toward his
pants the other’s fingers find way,

at play charitable mischief
neither thinks needs to be explained.


It begins as a gesture, kicks
in before inhibition’s more
obvious absence once delayed
registers for either, can wink

away what blinking thing greenlights
delight so that game played addicts
those this clockwork craving prefers
remain unnamed, perverts to drink

from its throbbing goblet a sip
which encourages neither to
shrink from shame dropping the gauntlet,
duelling against thoughts forays

into wanting to gobble it
always tend to intoxicate.