If the flesh is wholesome like a fresh coconut slice
then they are the flesh holes of some malnourished art deco bag of bones
that won’t stop at stop signs or a limelight or quit the gamble
when they are obviously ahead.
When the oreganos of a Summer morning
shift their aromas into my drugstore sleep, I declare
all my bad behaviors to be an act the way a kleptomaniac really wants
the attention of her ex-lover who is out snorkeling
with his latest girlfriend amongst those Miami starfish.
The tropical boys may swish their asses but they
batter the bloated hands that feed them
with their rainbow lips submerged and retarded.
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