when you woke up this morning
the dust in the acidic
had already settled upon your face
those past-apocalypse seasons we spent together;
it is a reminiscent of these
when I find myself at a morality loss
rousing up in cheap motel rooms
where the continental breakfasts
don’t seem “continental” anymore.
why do we keep on running?
where do you think we are going?
why can’t we just stake our claim
on some little dingy foreign country (side) dive
and trade treason for reason?
instead of bathing today, you bathe in perfume
and sit upon my dormant cock
the heat within your woman’s womb
doesn’t placate me anymore
but it’s the slow wind of those acidic elements
that waft through your monotonous hair
that which stirs my black key stroke erections.
and each strand that rakes through my hand
reminds me of earth –
pigmen born of mud
air, where contagion spreads –
fire, hel (lelujah) in the sky –
water, a grave integrity of baptisms –
you lay your naked face against my cottoned chest
feeling for my last breath, you whisper:
you don’t know this
but you have a black picket fence
staked around your heart
a grave marker
sitting on your soul
and, you’re wearing a suit.
no self-proclaimed poet wears suits,