from The Master Circadian Clock Cycles 1-8
she keeps choosing the lot of them
who stretch carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain.
the lovers who would be,
yet never will lie with she
drift sideways before eyes, a stream
of misbegotten waifs, once men, now geminis.
if only they were hustlers
pinching hipbones for dollars
or pungent sailors flooding her
furrowed welcome mat with callers.
but no,
there is he
who hides behind his gritty teeth,
and there is she who shutters at her sigh-
he who gets it up, then fondles her all awry.
“why oh why?” says she, in shambles,
replacing her nugget with two-fold flies.
when other others would be fierce
and praise God for the chance,
the innocuous illusory
strangles on his own artifice
his disappointing middle tones,
her quiet venefice.
for when she polishes off the day
and he phones in sick, sneaking groans
escape her crevice,
tick tock tick.
back to john she’ll slink
to the bed of home,
to biting lips and parting hips,
her amplified hours to think.
she’s bespectacled by night,
fogged-in by day,
refuses to take her midnight mangy
out to play.
for mangy’s an overly unctuous mess
malignantly pawing away at,
awaiting the preliterate
dreams of too much to confess.
at three in the morning,
foreshadowed comings
impale restless futility
on her own Eratos,
primeval virility.
in purpled shadows,
she gnaws away at Lorca’s feet,
at the pernicious stanzas,
landscapes, Andalusian meat.
breathless in robes of satin,
she’s a helix in nomadic haze,
a frustrated flesh
impressing onto bedroom mirrors
her flaming maze.
the reminiscent coalesces
with pale harmonies
re-wetting the slivers of doubt,
her vagabond body regresses,
sinless,
into violet clouds and tears.
with record player rippling
spinal hips curve to spleen
lightly, a coiling eroticism doubts
the perfect fledgling caprice
and finally,
feckless desires decease.
she stops forgetting who she is,
what her madness is about
a priori, a lamplit virginal,
impetuous in drought.
“where’s mangy?” she slurs,
“mangy, come out to play.”
stays hidden between legs
devout fertility endlessly purrs,
clawing away at indecipherable prey.
she’s clear about the meaning of sex,
the escape from rollicking deception
into cherished abandons
swimming in conception.
yet the others are not-
the ones she has chosen,
and foolishly embarked on with soul,
are drowning in preconception,
sycophantic pricks, half frozen by control.
to them, she’s swimming in madness,
tasting of precarious delight.
they see only a delectable obscurity
of precocious smells and precipitate sight.
oh, how the keeper of mangy
consecrates fevered hours to think,
yet night after night, one must shrink.
leave alone with wakefulness
its empty violet shell, her ink.
she dreams of her limestone lizard
in soft snow moonlight,
lifting his lethargic peace to her palms
sniffing and licking in like procession,
feasting on roasted heart, dripping blue love
over their alms.
her dragon has forgotten
broken chains with buried lovers
left in deserts past, it seems,
miseries lost, traced over forever
by the didactic banks of salt and sand
…..she dreams.
night after night,
the honesty of well-oiled seams
debates the covenants of love,
choosing to stretch
night after night,
carried-over torment
thin across her nipples
taut like insipid lust,
their pain, and thus
night after night,
finds herself always,
and again
alone
with aurora,
keeping stock
for indeterminate bliss.
peregrina leave, dismiss.
mangy come, exist.
painting by Gia
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