4.02.2011

A Pome That Slept In Sodomy Til 'Twas Safe To Type

His body clutches the mattress
through sour-smelling, sweaty sheets
like a panther clinging low to the ground
though this cat's strike is over.
In his heavy, sideways head
temples pound with tainted blood
and he can hear his eyelashes
against the pillowcase
which now smells of perfume
and overpriced conditioner.

He licks his salty lips to try to bring
them back, but they are too far
in the process to reverse the aftermath.
The friction, the rhythm, the giving
of a world where nothing hurts as much
at least not for the moment: these are what
contribute to the tingle in his tongue
and the scratches on his shoulders
and his hair all off in rays
and if he had a say about it
the soreness of his loins;
but tonight his mouth is good enough
and tonight is foul and fair enough
as the grasslands fall away
and transform into sand.

The panther shrinks to human form
a wounded gladiator laying, gasping
bleeding in the dust as the crowded
coliseum cheers the carnage on.
Brass soldiers grip their spears and await
their mortal orders as the Governor stands
and stretches out his hand, thumb still sideways.
The most honest moment in a man's life
is a brief and precious time directly afterwards.
He slips into a dreamstate somehow safer
than this current mocked-up nightmare
before that thumb can tilt down
or point up towards the sky.

He is grateful for not knowing.
He is tired from the fight.
He will empty trashcan contents
in the morning when she's gone.
For a man who claims to read
he's sure slow with the patterns.

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