The Tides of Intimacy
I stroll through Brooklyn dripping
with sweat like a lizard baking
in the summer heat, while a titmouse lands
on my shoulder, whispering
in my ear, flies off, leaves a rose
ointment smear on the skin of my wrist.
We are accompanied by three
Brits: a pig and a dog recently wed
of passion, and one spicy, American
sun cooked tomato- the manager
of the party- who left a sad olive behind,
who has sad and buff clowns lapping at her
heels, merely wishing for a dry toe
sock up their arse.
The Capricorn full moon rises
in the night sky in the season
of Cancer. I drag smoke
from my lips, push and pull
closer and then away from
my titmouse, as she does the same,
as we do the dance
of relationship, with moonlight
guiding our kisses and words
attempting to bridge our fears, desires,
never quite as successful as a roll
in the bed after the tide comes in.
What can we do but ride
the waves? What can we do
but let the semen tanks fill up
and then jizz all over
the rooftops of NYC?