(By custom barb-wired and fenced)
An innocent child, a sweet little harlot
To rub my tumescence against.
With legs like shoots and eyes like rain
Gray on a green hillside,
Impatience a little against the grain
And a port-wine stain on her side.
Fitted to still an old man’s grief
And lifelong-festering sore
With softness pliant beyond belief
And the gossamer things she wore.
Sweet pointy nothings emerge into view
Each like a Spring dew drop
When she handstands (“Look what I can do!”)
—Both popping out of her top.
Indeed, you turn nothing inside out,
Sweet little upsidedown
Girl with a circus flair and a shout
From the gob of a fat-faced clown.
His lips are stained with moon-white foam
And he takes the moon in his teeth
Every night with a book at home
And a sore that the gods bequeath.
And ever since, with a sigh and a wince,
He breaks the eel on his knee
And bloody tints from his fingerprints
Disfigure his harmony.
The stars effervesce in the liquid sky
And boil up out of my loins
And dissolve into mists when you are by,
And the sun into golden coins.
2/8/2014
