By and | 31 January 2013

Your electric moon breast
My black-trunked, gold-leaf slip
Fall into flux
Dissipate like white plumes
You’re especially wild
With a strange malaise for more

Metallic aches, we moor
Ourselves to a daisy, sit two abreast:
Brush strokes of willed
Grass in the distance, our slippery
Perspex brain plumb
At the centre of—ah!—fucks

Your hand pulls my bones out, a fluke
And the birds arch into morrow
Bright as the stain of blood plums
Chime in the beast
Crossing the freeway’s rose-pink lips
Roadkill wiled

Away the day: IT was another word for wild
Or another word for luxe
Discussing Freudian slips
With our mouths unmoored
Leave the port at Brest
Land’s edge gone dim, plumb

The rimbaldien sugar plum
Face the world
As he did, titless at best—
Ears and lip, flower of a heart, fleck
Of skin, gimme more!—
No cheat, strip

Our messy embrace, spilt
Air we’ll never plumb
The lash of each other, always more
Clouds, bodies, worlds
To clash like waves and fluke
TRANSMUTATION, a Grand work of breasts

Turned back toward Brest we slip
Up, boat set on flux, plumbing
The wild, nothing more

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