The mouths well used

The beauty of drinking future
Straight shots out of her mouth
I’ll say does me, like the brain death
Of orgasm that I give away
On the corner pilgrimage of weekends.
Those days that hump fat
On the burn, burning my own lips
In the Alps cold where no hugs
Warm the night for old freezes.
In those cabins boys tend
Gardens of talk like monks in
Wheezing mountains
Sipping sugar through whiskey straws.
Her head lulls under dark hoods
Soft as the spit she leaves
on my taste like fresh cotton—
Dawn and the stretch
Of my sore neck to harvest her
Acres of the acres we share.

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~ by Jeremy on April 16, 2011.

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