SOME BUNNY LOVES ME
It is the season of the hungry Worm,
the season of , season of
on the hungry Worm’s man-lips
slurping onto the flaccid
Animal it kills in the moonlight.
Cycle triggered: Gales
of dew, crotch and 409
milk the applause of maples,
semen oozing onto their trunks
to dry in the wind, and secreting
from telephone poles. In the livingroom
we worship the patriarch naked
with the vigor of our punk
dangle, you orate over carpet,
corneas shedding spores
to spread your gaze: Shedding
Season Burgeon, gelatin
til pearl-jelly blots the woodpanel,
in your peripherals Why
is the wind
trying to breed
Us? we ask
a glistering wind, a thinking
on icicles. The carpet is home to our blood,
the carpet reminds us of loam
where outside the Worm sucks flesh
in the mud.
Our temporal worms nuzzled over time’s Crust.
I watched you walk away alone. Over the sidewalk
Chafed with ice. Dots of tar on my epiglottis.
Disclosing my throat as a filter,
As a drain, as a bladder, as a tank.
It’s winter’s pelvis and I stomp over pank
To class, and dream of drinking glass.
You were my salamander, my Kanga-
Roo, tongues distending for tongue-touch,
Ghosts lagging behind our bodies.
Sperm-mote bowling through your blue tendril.
Sole electron rolling down your slug-urethra
Into the flower that kisses it back.
My chest is a logic / is a dialogue of pulp
Strapping me in sinews of sensation,
Wrapping me in its canon all volatile night.
The planet’s slivers slosh with Godblood.
We smell the blood, and it turns us on,
And we’re young, and the boys strip down on the dock
And their big butts crash into the moon-white river.
The world’s clean cologne the smell of riverwater wringing
Out of a boy’s briefs onto the planks, and the trace
Of summer day wear
Subdued by river is what this poem smells like.
If I could hold my love-soaked ghost to your nose
This poem wouldn’t exist.
You were my Kanga-
Roo / trufflebreath / truffleswelter. Leeches, my skin
Contradiction. Seam of river and blood,
Coil, itch, swim, and evolution.
The world as a ghost effusing out my Pinhole /
The World as a ghost shaping its vessel.
Twink in pinklight: both of us inspect the world’s ligaments
From the concerthouse. I want to kiss Him
And kisses’ idea threaded into windbreaker
Limp on the hook, etc. Separating myself into cherry-coloured prisms,
The storm having us as organs.
I keep catching whiffs of a sweet / musky smell
From somebod(y’s/ies’) bod(y/ies):
Washing over the middle-aged straight couple in front of me
/ Disclosing the honeypot in His underwear,
Leaving its name [sticky trace] in my brainholes
Enigmatic. Resilient. Forever seeking to increase his pizzazz. Jacob Brooks’ chapbook ARTPORN is forthcoming in Spring 2016 from Citizen of the World. He tweets @skinandimpulses.