The Full Fat Lap of Latitude

Astringency! – sharp psychic condiment –
Szechuan-hot zap – should set you on the track:
you need a greater crack at the ecstatic

than a soft-scratched back: though that might
start the right contractions in the psyche
and the groin to which you’re damned if you

will not conjoin the Universe. Here’s the lovely
and exasperating curse, and challenge –
to unhinge your sensibility just to that point

of receptivity which knows to swallow whole –
and yet remain as calm and bright and malleable
as gold: to be the thing that zings so hard

and fast you can’t begin to chart its crafty
brash trajectory – wed to the warm, soft metal
of a sweet refectory of soul: where everyone

sits down to eat and licks the bowl. Madness:
meet your everlasting comfort. You want
absolutely all of it today: scattered hot sparks

from that sexy sweating smithy at the forge,
engorging you with fire and his kickass attitude –
all residing in the full fat lap of latitude.


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