Feed on feed and feed, till fueled and full, today. We made love but not in tent. When beating the little bitch of a beak, the beaver became the meat fucking its cleaver. Licking, spitting, spotted at night’s passing: the angry fingernails and bitter lichens that heat. Hit and hit till blooming, the morning glory sing. Flicking till gotten has gone and he’s off. He’s off panting. The crevice drips, the cave is semi-dry. No longer does he pout, drooling onto the somewhat sleeping hag. Me. The black is grape and feel. I was fully hidden under linens of fools wool, pulled off. I coddle my warm and violated spade.
Good morning crows and bars. Up and Adam’s apple at it again. Thighs quake as angry hands converge. Does love leak to gain? Underneath the pleasure, my hand nests passionately around a pocket talon. Blinking. Slowly, affectionately delivering gash upon gash, lightening the blow, out, window’s cold, winter’s colder. The slit pools, pours. There is blood; there is river. My buss meets, latent skin, for the last time. Smooth plains touched back till gravel did grow. Not a sole behind, shovels a pig, mouth full of soil, spoilt into the night, spoils the fruit above the whole gaping hole. The woods are too crowded.
Later, positivity. The succubus is leeching; breech the baby was born. Heir legs too long and grown in as the days skipped, a record came and gone. I’ve sickened. I’ve split my tongue in two and speak backwards, when asked—omitting the vomit of my deity. Eating dinner with a babe and sucking the ribs dry of their meat. Have I? Done wrong? I don’t take what I want. What is for the taking? A trip. A love. A slipknot not pulled. Backbones break and crack. Inside the ground, he groans. Toss and turned, barely alive. He were. We were. Our family: so small, so tiny, fragile, and now engraved in stone. When the world mows over our bodies, we become the soil we once weeped and sowed.