probably a poem about sex

I was a sail
                   or
                       buoy
a vessel for you
                            were a flower
                                                     child.
I was a farmer’s hand
on virgin land
with no plough to till your earth
                                                           ly ways
con     
      sensually wild.

So soon beneath the tell-tale tiles
of our riff-raff roof
where the fur black cat
                          ran back
to where we started.
Portes slammed and fenêtre failed
until legs were all that parted.

I was a basket case
a host for you
                        to be a missionary
                                                         in every place
                                                         except position.
And between your thighs
your holy ghost
touched every nebula of life
but not the universe of my religion.

And so beneath the chim-chiminey che-roo
where our fur black cat
                           once sat with you
the faces in your mirror on the wall still stare
and I huddle like a child
                                           in the corner
                                                                  on the chair
as I watch them grin
from the scrim.

Like a lonely leper
I let them in.

Juke of Flow

my son of hours

I take you from this barren ground
decaying flower
dying ember
starving child,
my son of hours.

And hold you to my empty breast
waiting for your hand to free my finger.
But you cling to this moment
as if it had a future.

Go now little one
there’s nothing to eat if you stay
except these saltless tears
so pointless now
I rarely find the time to bleed.

———————

I have clouds in my brain,
that choke my heart
now that we are apart.

And if the yellow sun does not rise I will smile
knowing I am free from its heat for a while.

Juke of Flow