Saturday, December 9, 2006

The Honey-Bee Trap

Skin searing from the Camel smokers
and flannel sweat
Who knows of it
in this dry fume cloud within
this hole where senses shed their chokers
awake and soar?
(Damn beergum floor)
loose tongue smothered tasting sticky
gooey honey lick it up
suck from th’ golden pish-stained mug
sun-blesshed flesh an’ all th’ resht
a tonic for th’ soul
The next call comes
what’s done is done
stuck against the ambergris
but in the woods
a nest of queens
will sting me in my sleep