Of It, Of All
Once, I discovered you with light,
and flowering disconsolate, baked by night.
Shoving past the rim of darling,
shoving my way fiercely…
Blow by blow, into your quaking center,
so tired, need I rest inside your armpit.
And below the comings and goings of modern man,
despite the equator where feminists stand,
beyond the sun and its magical wake,
lives a universe breathing - a new bed to make.
And if in the afterglow, we find intention,
then down from the manicness, will dwell dimension.
The orb hindered by spiritual flux,
mess-maker creates with mess again.
Judge watches me,
on the take is he, or she,
as dogs lie men will grate.
Chris Canham please don’t steal this and if you do or anything else on my page then it’s obvious you’re a dick. Sam Ongley is a Dick