markbousfield

A-trophy,
you are,
like the teeth marks on my foreskin where you were,
a communique of the way he wants it.
Blood and semen forever linked in cycle.

...the younger men paper skinned
fighting in the sands shifting
like the rush of tied hands in a pool filled by the tide.

...spikes of amphetamine
dull the ruler light measured in angles bursting out behind the shadow of your hand,
curled and asleep on my chest.

an endless month of senseless,
romance on the brink of home.
Old secrets revisited in a dusty box of servitude.