Maternally and unsurprised again to be knocked down
By a thirst so fool to be knocked up full of a lasting
fight,
My distant hopes continued to rub the fat horizon of its hot
belly
And saltlick the unbalmed lips of the mountains
Until, down the cragged thighs
Switchbacking through the smoothed runs of her kneehighs,
She saw fit to burst
Another birthing wishing-fountain poisonously
Poised to give birth, yet again, to thirst.
Trenchcoated, blistered and lankily perverse
Balloon-Jello-Mold-Animal, changeless and penniless,
Took out his hankie, nevertheless,
And spanked up the spilled primordial soup
Into his own little wonderful-thirsty feedback-loop.
And victorious as willing himself an ocean of leather
To slake the sun with his already-baked and blistering skin
He then conceived of his life as an emptying, holy
Change-purse of sweatshopped pleather.
He squeaked his plastic and contorted his bones
Into the kind of shitkicker’s mule that barely at Bill Cosby
even groans,
And he shook his fist of thirst in waves
At all the fashionable
Passionables crying over their own graves,
And he coughed up a tampon
From the purse of his stomach
And wetted it with tears
Till it swoll into a comfy hummock,
And alas he lay the yolk of his head
On that self-wet frying bed
And yelled up her skirt that he’d be not dirt
Fit to burst with thirst to look up her ungirt skirt,
But he’d be fake dirt and fuck all that hurt!
He slept a bit, but when he woke
Again hovered her tormenting
Thirst-bursting clit, and once again
Upon a time
In the trench of being yearn-benched,
Balloon-Jello-Mold-Animal,
Quickening in the lime
Dry as a bone lost all his mold
From not making a consistent camp
Near the persistent damp
Until all that can be told
Was what he said when he lost his hold:
“The tearducts of my bones narrow
Themselves pumping haute-salt
Until, harrowing the hot clog,
I can pop like a pimple
A pearl of pus and marrow,
Oyster-simple.”
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