Thirty day orgasm

Moving day. Fatigue to come
but someone moved into a particle
of bourbon, and he knows nausea.
What to box but the flaunt of his hair,
the face given him, his nostrils
that sucked in his mother’s old milk,
or his body, the best bed in town
on which like a tribute I lay down.
A ritual sacrifice here. I am stabbed,
I deflate, I suffocate holding hard
to the edge that would separate
my mind from his if I desired it so,
but I don’t, not tasting this in my throat
as if my larynx were a passenger boat
heaving itself to stay afloat
in what I can assume is called ecstacy,
in what I’ll call the bedroom wasting syndrome.
Unlike all good things that end
I’ll have to mastermind my fatigue,
build our home out of the centuries
and blow it over with my expelled wind
when at last I spasm, when at last I finish.


~ by Jeremy on January 9, 2011.

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