Dusty Leaves

1.

& a small splash of fresh blood on a stone.
An unusual, dark maroon.

Boots plod through dirt
or volcanic ash, semi-comic puffs mark every stride
& the sound of the doorbell is like a squeal/

Three women watch twelve naked men in
the afternoon sunshine, their beards
glisten with beer.

The wet slap of passion does
not echo in the walls of this engagement &
out on the patio
nature’s darlings,
the pigeons & starlings
are birds in the same game deck
of peck
& struts ….even
the sun is mounting our privacy screen.

Like evolved beasts, shaved all over
& wearing sunglasses for effect
each talks before tumble,
ask before we bask.

Bald & bandy
eats his candy.

2.

With a crack of the whip
the Mistress supervised a line of six men
milking their condom coated cocks
like a mad old military band.

Pleasure is complex.

3.

My shaky fingers, her quick joke
his softness: that stubborn limp dick almost
gentle alongside the brother’s arid ardour.
Is this “bump” & “grind” as like drunks
we call
for fresh

& grind
(it’s exercise)
& then write
on stone or word processors or toilet doors while
she waits on the wall of passion with convex lips.

Pleasure is work.

We are all a house of axes with softwood friends
in our admitted dreams,
not this cheese.

I will
nibble on the neck of a war
& come again
for a third time
like some olympic medallist landing in sand\\\\\
///////////a fluid & pulsing soul.

The funeral procession has left my legs
& we all swallow.

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