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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