dicks like jesus

by A.K. Blakemore

three days of vestry weather
and the pinot hitting a stomach raw
to produce a lilac mood where simply everyone
is watching

we the shaved en cas d’incendie –
skimming death’s-heads and dropping blows
through intercourse pearl-bordered
& replete with sense of whimsy –

imagination unseemly after four years
coiled on his pillow in pear-cut stones
asking

would you rather be shot or sued.
a white sphinx
with her academic specimen –

there are easier ways to make money but not tenure
so who here is the real victim?

escape high
into the rose-petal tartlet of a newborn day
with those boy sylphs in laundered kit
and frottage mirrored in the big moist eyes
of domestic cats. o dicks like jesus

so nice
so quiet
so kind to its mother

squirming like a moth on tile
beneath my purgative curve

waiting to be pinned and mounted
in the great silence when i – sated – pull away