The body flies, it spits
Black, polish and water.
Round and round secrets spoon
In the toe of low quarters
The white noise
Of bristle against leather
Heeled and soled, surged and starched
Until the mission is over
Save two scars in the wall of your scalp.
The heart yellows over
Believing that someone will
Take and become truth given.
An inventory of what could be done better
Hangs limp and ineffective.
A pulsing tongue
Waits to take control
Flicks behind teeth
Pinions and coils
To beat to hell
Soft urging, dark grabbing
Pancaked, budded palms
And desire swallowed
As asparagus gone to wood
Stringy and hard and sallow.
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