David Larsen

Careless wave of its arrival
beside the beach where we were eating
sweet, slobbering yards of I was there,
          I assure you,
in roses throbbing the room like a cowbell.
Sex can be about land tenure, see
— that’s what makes the beach-front sexy,
all those Ferris wheels and things.
Another lever for us to fiddle with?
Fellows, I’ve got my hands full with this one!
The leather bag came inside of itself.

Dinner is served on the violent log-ride.
Clamato and shaking to stop the vodka.
Nothing she eats can come in a hogshead,
          and that includes wheat.
What’s a “cataract”?
A “tank top”?
I’ve never seen a lemon, so what happens
          when you squeeze one?
In answer, the fanged serpent wants a massage,
wants his inner heel tickled and played with a pop
          and delicious weasel:
The ass is most thrilled in its porches.
The leather bag is a sort of a fund.
Fucking is no art, though it can be on canvas
          if you’re gentle.
Whale and whale-shark, dog, dog-friendly —

Houseless porches of the holy
cram their great and thieving yards.
This one’s rented, to the back we kind of
press together, knitting snorkels,
threading daylight into
Camouflage the daylight with me!
I am an alcoholic and have been one
          since my sixteenth birthday.

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