Gurgitated Urge Dirge

Being three unrelated poems about the confusion of love, lust, loss and, most importantly, the confusion that follows when these three sensations begin rubbing up against each other in the dark. To recap, a gurgitation of the urges that sound as a dirge as they emerge in the night.

MORSEL
If thinking don't happen in
darkeness and drunkness,
then thinging will and I
will taste the lickour of the
obtoxious touching of tongues
and tongues of waistes
and I will inhale infidelities
in the perfumgated smirking
smells of h'odor'vres, spices
of appeliezers, scents of dips
and spreads I relish
as fingered foods, as
doubthfuls, underneath
the canape of missecurities
and sauteed stank.


TROJAN
I bought a box of your teeth
on sale underneath those nails
the ones you fought me with
the ones I hammered into
wood to build that horse
the ones I hammered into
you and hammered into
and I hammered you and
hammered and hammered
until the wood was limp.


DIRGE
She’s obnoxic, toxic
with politics, dicks, trick or
treat me to a sick cyclical
wick that turns and burns
and never quite learns.
She’s analyzed, sized up,
dissected, inspected,
regurgitated and returned.