an impure way to lay

You shall not approach a woman to uncover her nakedness as long as she is in her customary impurity. (Leviticus 18:19)


this is my week
of impurity.

and certainly,
i plan to partake
in the games He says
i should not play, but

i'm going to
anyway.

because i can't
just watch
from the bench,
with legs crossed,
as passes are made
and skirts are raised
to everyone but me.

but but but
i stammer, i claim

it's the best
sort of mess!
and i love
to mop
the floor
with myself,
narcissistic,
as it seems.

this
lopsided smile
will at first deceive,
suggestive of
shy reverie,
when really
once you know me,
i'm wild as a
rabid beast

that leaks,
from the cracks
and creases
of vulgar speech.

a Rorschach blot
warms me
as it travels
out,
spreading
to the core
of my
subconscious
self.

i need
something
with absorbency
and braided string,
because society
is not kind enough
to let
my flow
fall free.

i must dam
this crescent
clam crevice
of stubble flesh,
to protect
the cotton crotch
panting please,
as it
kisses my lips
so breathily,
like a gateway
swaying
in the breeze,
hanging
from hinges,
wrinkled and pink,
always
partially
open.

but this is not an invite.

this does not mean
you can come inside,
but it does not mean
you can't
either.

let's just say,
we'll see.

while we
settle on a
front porch sort of
compromise.
this isn't your home
but you can
stay for awhile.

crucified on a cross
of accusation,
of masturbation,
i like to say things
i'm not supposed to
even when
they don't make
much sense.

the ship's not sailed,
it's sank.
behind the
velvet drapes
that get so heavy
when wet.

,filled to the hilt
it dripped
dripped
dripped,
from it's
nest of metal
and dirt and twig,
a mining
of earth
by wind,
with a
pubic grin
to embarrass
even
the most stoic
of us.

with a daily
hormone dose
you can
practice control
of the
population sort,
even if you
don't
know
how it works.

i always seethe
on placebo week.

an ornery, horny
mantis that
will not pray
but
only scream,
please, please me!
even though
everyone knows
how that
story goes:
betrothal or
betrayal,
they both end
in woe,
with bitten necks,
and rolling heads.

i reach,
with lips
and breasts
and whatever else
it takes.
on hands and knees,
i'll kick, i'll scream.
i am the baby
of the
family.
i'll do anything
for attention.

watch out.

i feel it
move and churn
inside myself,
i molt,
i melt,
outwards.
spreading thick
like spilled oil
on a
riverbed,
as flesh fed
little fishies
suffocate beneath
the clotted veil
that wavers
over everything,

with that
tell tale gleam
full of
pheromones
we cannot see,
but read somewhere
in some
science
magazine,
the way a scent
can attract
or repel
the opposite
sex
seemed like
magic
to me.

and
sometimes,
but not always,
it looks
so pretty
to me.

though i know
even God
would
whinny
with disgust
at the filth
that comes
from my
sinful cunt,
which i
blatantly rub
whenever i want,
because i'm
crude
or rude
or some
combination
of the two.

i'd dance
naked
in a
sacrificial
ritual,
just to
blasphemy
to the
max degree,
this
archaic way
of
behaving.

i'm just saying,

it's never any fun
to play the saint.

some have that
superstitious belief
in past lives,
more like
half life.
just me, just mine.
everyday
at the
same time
i hear the alarm
go alarming me
from whatever state
(of mind, not map wise)
i happen
to be in
at 5 o clock,
the chime
the whine
the wailing cry
from the
prisoner's throat
as the
noose choke
holds him up
like a marionette.

i would
cut the strings,
or
drown
the thing,
or
kiss the feet
of the
set of stairs,
if ever
it starts
growing,
parasitic,
inside me.

but it's
not really
dying
if it
never
was alive,
some say.