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Fucking II, part I: My phallus in a shaft of morning sunlight

My phallus in a shaft of morning sunlight.
Shall we examine it and its environment?
Dust is also in this shaft of sunlight
in, out of it, on things as equally as the light
on the mattress and my books
the wine bottle and your eyelids.
And some flies are bouncing off the ceiling
rising, falling, chasing, sometimes copulating
through the air sending trails behind themselves
like the smoldering tips of sticks swung at night.

Why do I let it bother me when a fly’s on my cheek
waking me from sleep, diverting me from reading?
Why do I wave my hand at it?
One crawls my risen flesh
with the slightest tickling footsteps.

O my hardon! one eyed son of Neptune
true offspring of unalterable sea
eater of both Greeks and sheep
so jealous and pent-up
you think nothing of crushing
your rival with a stone.
Always particular unless you’re desperate.
Samson’s jawbone
or virgin’s maypole tightly wound
with pink and yellow ribbons bound
by hands pink and innocent
among the lambkins and the butterflies.
A ball and chain for Sophocles
muse of Whitman’s tenderest lines.

Where you lead I will follow
sower of new generations
reaper and propeller.

It does no good to try and understand you.
I only know sometimes you aren’t
and then you are like a candle held out in the dark
showing both the passage and the step.

While Holly Woodlawn on the silver screen
doesn’t want us to know she is a man
making sure always that her thighs
are seen deceptively by our eyes
so it looks like she’s shoving a beer bottle in
the warm wet womb of a woman
when actually instead that cold glass neck
slams against her cock and balls
as she reaches through her actress moans
to hold hands with Joe Dallesandro
who’s so fucked up on junk he can’t fuck her
though this joining of hands we know makes them one:
Dallesandro and Holly are tenderest love.

Then a bucket of flowers, garlands of blood.

 

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