{establish long-form metaphor}
deep-sauna-sunlight drenched afternoon,
when it woke,
that bone-crack passion-snap deep-gut hunger,
ass-to-crotch, nose-to-page.
Moist lips suckling the moment’s teet,
tasting the skin of it, smelling the lust,
deep-pull thrust–thrust-thrusting to the quick of it.
short-hair punk-dyed slight and musty thing
feel that first spindle twine…
{concurrent image}
alliterate phrases come ejaculatory ,
slick-drenching themselves to half-mad stains on the blood-wall,
little whiffs of the brain-fingered dance half-known-all-forgot…
scramble-spitting ink to page, ink to page,
hoping the gravity drips will twirl a labyrinthine path,
breadcrumbs back to ecstasy.
{draw parallel}
tongue lapping the crevice of grace,
watching them “aren’t they greats”–
–rim-rod their pounding pregnant pace
feel the core-deep tremble and the gathering wet,
lap up the slick and glory in the tricks and skills,
–playing salutary sloppy to giants
{turn}
chasing la petite mor[t]e,
forgetting the quickening at your own wagging rhythm,
forgetting the long lapping chain, from horizon on.
{return}
don’t kid yourself kid,
it’s all about the gettin’ off,
from that first glory touch,
to that kinked out slosh
wrappin’ mouths ‘round words ain’t nothing but playin’ with toys,
‘n the excitement of someone watchin’
ain’t that, ain’t that a plus?
