Pig of the Sadist

Tainted with misfortune, with visions of furtherance
I am as lonely as the drugs I take 
Singing in a fever dream. Falling into a senseless memory. He calls me Sir, like I am something pure. Maudlin like Orhan Veli. Well maybe, I am 
I watch you, sucking on ripe fruit like a whore. Speaking some kind of ancient language. Dressed flax and domesticated. Pulling at icedrifts and grassmilk
Punching holes in fly creeks and hillsides. Always guessing and never knowing
You are more than a slow-healing wound. My villain in bad weather
Bluebells echo, sympathy for fools, glowing brighter than a tangerine
Shimmering blue dust, somewhere in the chaos, when we are forsaken
My blood flows like a rosary. Careworn. Apricot in a motheaten garden 
Chrysostomos
The sky is lit orange 
Oh, how meaningless I am to you 
Burning the dead ends. I lay flowers on my chest for every new scar. Gazing at your curious bulbs, fat with desire. The moment is still. An angel without wings, unduly deprived in my melancholy. Looking back as you walk away
The storm breaches the dance, a night of hot white fog like a tinderbox
A teardrop in my palm. Silently reckless. I am the papercut at the edges 
When I am healing I am godless
Oscillating with my winter ailments and my sticky belly. Pushing and pulling a luminous undertow. A shattered sea
Tongue, ear, armpit
Lust
Recall, the lives we built. The longest year. The sine qua non. The thought of tomorrow. Grinding molars in mellow light. Vertical and maritime. Our faces in hooded mountains of veiled glory, spreading our legs like invitations 
Sweet moments of eye contact 
Graveyard shifts, reminiscing. The tighter the feeling gets. The squat pen rests
My dick gets hard, and yes, I dig with it 
Sniffing. Wanting more. Doing as I am told
Yes sir, I smile.