Thursday, November 12, 2015

Swallowing Crusoe

Those twin memories slid closer and closer to one another
until they were sitting on top of one another's laps.
The savage running through the surf
and the salt taste of her neck, the feel of her ass in my claws.
Twisting together, melting, merging, it was disgusting.
The acid burnt through my bib. I pawed at it
with a wad of napkins. All these years I was passive
when I needed to be active and boy do I regret it.
I wouldn't survive an hour on that island.
Footprints fill with water, lakeside property for the sand fleas.
I wrote songs of dancing inside her, wrote songs
describing crimes I was incapable of perpetrating in real life,
hoping it would spark something, and it did,
but she were already gone, and so it fizzled
in the foam that trailed behind her.
Seawater seeped in to ruin the powder, to rust
the barrel of my weekend. No one would be caught dead
on this mound where I squat, watching myself wrestle
my better judgment on the sand, grabbing my own ass,
sitting on my own face, tracing sentimental crescents
in the spilled salt on the tattered tablecloth
Sometimes it's so delicious not to think, sometimes it's hell.
In my dreams we stumble along like naked babies,
you drunkenly sucking my thumb before we collapse.
Then I wake in my little shelter
hoping someone will creep from the forest and be charmed
or at least not tie me to the stake and devour me,
the smoke from my sizzling flesh rising up like an SOS
over the waves.

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