Sunday, December 18, 2005


What’s on tonight but lips pressed on lips,
the neck, the hollow of the collarbone,
down on the silver strings from chest to hips,
bass guitar counterpointing basement’s groan;
and on the stirring cord, lips fawn, and tease,
teeth sheathed, to please and worry its backbone:
an arctic wolf licking the meat it sees,
meat spiked onto a knife, the foam its own.
On this white horse, the lancer sits astride.
He jerks the bit and bloods its jaws, care thrown
to the wind, pain spurring the pleasure-ride,
slippery saddle, mounting to one moan -
we come together, separate. Tonight
blunts hunger’s edge and whets the appetite.


Larry said...

Very strong and visceral.

I love the oxymoronic last line, it really strikes the truth. I think it would be worth it to change "Tonight" in the line before to "The night" to avoid reading it as a time signature.


Pris said...

I found you through Lone Crow's blog and am glad. Really enjoyed the poetry on your blog. Especially like this one.