Soapy Beard

He does not love a beard, for it shades a pleasant view:
for it bristles and roughs ...
sage and the pungent smell of musk.
But cream soap smooth,
he adores,
wrapped right beside him in lemon and lace.
A mellow haze deadens the lust,
blisters him,
old boots in the foyer, rough,
dirty underwear, a bic light and mace.
Mildew-beard patterns a hewn,
callused embrace: shiver and crumble.
Emaciate a cry.
A tightly swelled tummy, like a dead scab.
At dusk it is grim, eventide.
The sun no longer shines forthrightly;
day is alien -- chime in the sublime,
only body on body finds a home,
as the mind quivers and shakes,
as they come together and alone,
he, older and older makes.

No comments:

Post a Comment