good aloof salad musk

The young aloof visitor comes again,
his knock-knock on the window
of the night is pebbles as big as him,
no hips or those puckered villains
but his fist, that fist bruises where I mark him
to bruise and without a failure,
he comes too soon and chewing
his bitter skin I just, just, just repeat myself.
I can do this for hours on him,
bread of the death of the messiah who didn't
find it in his domain to tell his followers
love comes first then comes strange fruit.
And the body after thousands of years is still fresh.
I even love his aftertaste
where I cry
seasoning over the bread
for hours until waning
my good aloof boy dissolves so completely
that I'm left artless
and destitute with my cracked skull
on his knees, rocking, rocking, the good visitor
again knocks on the back of my heart,
kisses without a pucker the muscle
   rocks me to that shaking sleep,
   does it absolve even a poet from his madness
   awake not wishing awareness in a bed of semen

Reading this some months after it was written, I quite like how I tied together love, sex, painkillers, and Jesus into one nervous muscle.


~ by Jeremy on July 21, 2008.

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