if I stare at the roof long enough
would i let it's ink
roll down over me ? 

my shape, pliant and waiting and 
rutting
tilting toward the certainty 
the cooing touch and strain
spreading stygian weight 
pressing down, down, and do...wn

coy and waiting with glistening teeth
brushing, roiling voice 
weight like a purring cinderblock
hands, too many to be real 
too deft to be human 
...

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it's 12 degrees
and the marrow cools:

we catch  --
breaths hitched
 to a cataclysmic gait
a crooked pace:
all-damned 
while you wait

god's sticky magazines 
pages pregnant 
with guilt
regret
the ilk of resplendent idleness
of abandonment
in this blind-eye of a city, turned 
to rot, mitotic
never-ending 
a car crash of ashamed sex
but it's just too good 
to be any other way .

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