The kebab is one gaping
papoose
spice it, have a sheet of fingers
wrap it
maybe an elbow depress the center
eat it upright, not so much jabbing it
facewards but nodding earthwards
in a general direction.

trophy laced
with colorless veg
mayo drenched.
how is it that elements  huddled
in a tight fix will always find their
symmetry or, but, not amenable
to their mates, refine their symmetry
because hidden?
because the body does well to secret itself
just as these our soggy artefacts can
luxuriate
in pita or piada
or guts.

all comes out in the worsh, so be thankful for pipes and paper,
the mazelike artifice beneath your toes
and the great sun who shines down, yes, he is a god,
though I don't know which

weird tail

where do you find? whatmeans?

san Quentin quail is girlish boy

or womanish girl in pants or mini-dress or chunky turtleneck

is it possible that part and parcel all

flesh cheese upset column and latin conjugation

write out the same voluptuousnesses

to kip on. ok, there’s no guarantor

of the sun who rises because nothing better’s

doing but step in front of a greyhound and see

if it won’t take you somewhere…ticket or no

 

hazmat, has matt done what? he did one thing

for forever. not eating nothing. never saw a cheeto

touch his lips. here EAT THESE!

but there’s estrogen in MSG and cheez-wiz

in the flambé. who wants to eat this? who wants

to take one bite? I take care to put what I want

my body to think it wants  for my body’s benefit.

isn’t that right, brother donkey?

 

girls don’t fart they fluff, nothing so

lily white extrudes black pasted down

her inner thigh wants for my clammy

hands to clean her or at least move it

up to where it makes sense

 

 

think of the heart its so many

pipings gunked

tentacling to outer regions

so long that it knocks

we knock about        crumby

no girl, no job, no problem

ballooning ketchup to this end

to bring your adidases

unlaced soiled

to smelly It’ly

where sunned pukes

in genie pants and anoraks

feed their hearts kebab meat

heini swilling unloving and sound

S’no clambake

he said lacrimose

ill pretend she’s your girlfrayend

no rhythm, nervous energy, wants to contort

every which way, ascolana breath

beat back my chapped lips

“dat’s dead skin baby!”

he can’t just be an asshole. you need a reason:

he’s an asshole.

scapegoat - coast to coast - my
barechest is rank with question marks
i shed matters of fact
abundant
tangle in my cleavage
frosting my tailbone
but somehow, luminescent
my ribs delivered their meat
to my thighs
where a purple contusion fermented.
i like my me....fermented.

creole dirge

creole dirge, if it reach the frequency at which
quail eggs poach in their shells and asking thighs clap
shut
ill be a man yet!

cottage cheese thighs
quaver
          i cuff
          stuccoed incheek
          pimentos out
when tartar seals my dickhole
jewschnozz snouts the wires

two of everything: two eyes, two ears,
two shoulder blades, two cheeks, two shoes,
elegant