& 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
the pigeons & starlings
are birds in the same game deck
& 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.
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.
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
& 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.
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.