Thursday, September 4, 2008


I hate kneaded flour
it reminds of semen
in the dark of my palms

it puts me off to smell
sweat oozing from the armpits
the thighs moist with urine

in bed the body is
its own antidote if itched
for love the wasted sex

I hate to meditate
the erotics of bygones
growling with unzipped night


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