The Perfect Game

hours I spent with my cheek against your spirit

smoothing the walls

of a private utopia

a summer of thought

sweet like balloons of sugar

mouthful of music

sometimes a note that matched my heart

claiming me

with words like sacred and heat


back from the platform in his throat

where I sat waiting

blowing down the vagus tunnel

oh I had a nerve

I felt his irrational glare like a flaying of crumpled skin

so ancient

adhered thoroughly

scraping away

with kerosine and lime

it animated him

you know

his fear

it wriggled and bubbled and tried to smile

heartless in truth

delivered on a sharp edge

an excluded mind acting alone


defending himself against consumption

I saw my pain on his face

I sat thoughtfully and recognised myself

I was braced

I was brave

back to back with his mother

and her

the she in he who stood tall with her gun

and yet there I was like a photograph torn at the edges

spread like honey

projected and hot

then curled like a ball of inflamed infant

on the platform in his throat

tightly clasped with grand miserly fingers

painted red

but I am a man he says sticking his dick out.


but do you love your penis darling, really love it

the way it should be loved

with all of you

be there when you touch it and soon you will come

to know yourself…

I swept me over with a fine tooth comb

willing fresh change

releasing our agreement

the agreement to love



this purpose is warming

the perfect game

a ritual quest

for true ecstasy

flowing with it

the love




4 thoughts on “The Perfect Game”

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