Fuck Poem with Language from the Gospel of MarkSteve Kistulentz
As it is written, a list of things we did not, and shall never do: such as go elsewhere, into the next town where we were unknown yet still beautiful as if I had not been sick with this lunatic fever that I have had since you moved here. In the next town we did not take a meager room behind the stables and the radio never spoke the false promise of voluptuous days and I did not fill the bedside table’s only drawer with Swedish sex toys and stolen bottles of booze or offer you wine mixed with gaul. Your body never dripped with wild honey and come, and you did not gird yourself to the headboard with leather straps or blindfold me with silks. I did not invade the Sudetenland of tan lines and razors, and when you did not emerge naked and unshy from the lake, your body did not appear to the astigmatic me as a tree, or any other beautiful thing. Number me among the rheumatoid and the infirm of heart. The next time you allow your fingers to graze the hillocks of your own hip, the whole lovely parade, you will learn why I speak in blasphemies. I need to put my fingers in your wounds to believe, which is why I went to the lake’s edge alone, and asked no one to follow. Instead, I spent night and day crying out and bruising myself with slick, moss-covered stones.
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