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The Problem With Lust Sometimes

the problem with lust sometimes
is structural

there is this rod looking for an
orifice
an orifice wanting to be filled
with sweet hardness
and stiff lengths
its depth utters a name
a longing


everything fits and
so happiness radiates to each nerve

there are other 'incoherences'
and lapses of the world of creation
on the verge of
insatiation

orifice to orifice and the rod
striking another rod in loneliness
bells and bells
no one penetrates and no one is penetrated
like plate upon plate
of pillar side by side with another pillar

each looks somewhere else
anticipating much
doing a lot of sensing out where is that and
where is this

there is nothing but a tree of loneliness
on a desert landscape
accented by a skull of the wolf

without leaves and rotten roots
trying to reach for the moon

the dead moon, the scorching sun
the useless days
the dragging hours of the bloodied gladiator
the amazon hanging dead
on the tree
at the tip of her braided hair

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