from The Martini Mansion by Brian Waniewski


I think on him & thinking fly—we wet in the garden hosed down so skins slip to touch-
Bared bodies both & single whim him to hear I do me broken scream he & back I come.

Not once but many nights novas can he fold greater than eight therein to your bathetic I
Off Sir Tum-tum wiped with scented whites & drooly done half-flaccid breath become I

Snore I lie beside hating why wanting how knowing so broke who I am to you—not him.
Freely I tell you too much to make more dear myself who you dear might make but delay

Your lips always love and paper kisses and promises too inky spring when all I am is sex
Whose sinking value days take of me kept by troth to bilk this time, this place, dear, you.

The stars, the stars, I will recall them sundry & tell your jealousies a shape on the ceiling
If there they must be the constellation I call out tonight: 2 better boys by moonlight fuckt.