Giving Up on Flesh

We’re giving up on flesh. The nuzzle-funk of sweat,

smooth lanes of skin, the urge to lick it up,

tongue-map it fresh, while conjuring penumbral

paradigms of sin which sink insinuatingly into the mesh

of the Imagination’s algorithms, haunting like a violin

intoning, burning, roaming, yearning for a stud in rut:

all too full of but and butt and taunt to help out much,

engendering a touch which by its jealous slavering

eventually keeps you wavering too long again between

another this and that – to do the lissome one? or blunder

into that sleek bundle: fat and sexy, pushy and expressing

an exceedingly arresting tushy. Like a poem changing

rhyme schemes out of pique or out of such a lack

of expertise in the formalities it’s lost capacity to tease,

the body is a shoddy breakdown – cannot take another

takedown – slackening, all ass-crack leak: a taking-back

enacting now the swing away from anywhere

that sex is on the docket: some pronoun in the lexicon,

whose aim is not to maim or shock it, rattles the embattled

undiscovered being you have spent a life intent

on never seeing: someone you had never thought

to woo – surely never ought to make love to. You.

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