After Rouge by Lisa Pasold, Travel 3 by Barbara Beck and Man in the Evening by Sean Standish.
What am I doing here, my lap grown out of silk,
red-feathered, writhing in a leaky apartment
with harum scarum flashes of accidental flesh?
Me against what look like wild tracer dogs
ferociously mashing up on cherries?
Ripe pits, she on her navel, scraping at my bluff,
unsung and horribly afraid of what I'm doing...
Mercenary streaks alone can't explain
the imagination of a hydrant bachelor, his bitten nerve
stood up and stretching out the door.
What am I doing fricking decorative endings,
sampling the slurp and strut of cherry spit warmth?
What the fricking spit of cherries am I doing
returning as exhaust onto the floor shrilly hollering
O lovely barbarians into the filthy morning light?
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