we strolled away from it
as if anything were real
the moon's a rubber ghost
outside
the coastwhere perverts shift the trees of
their rutting minds gestalt-guttered
we are but slow-motion orphans
to photograph ourselves fed full
boasting a joyous sex a yearning
to be held to be so-called confident
oysters why must you bother me
i ask not for pearls but tootsie rolls
not a soul can claim my death
my claws play wigs on the
ahadon't mistake a single hole
or tell a soul
it's anal penetration
if you know it to be so
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