The pits

I am lying with my pits upwards
I am drowning in this pit, downwards
I am so fine, lick that
I am so right, taste gravel
I am inside your prayers
I am sellotaped under your prayer mat
I am shedding lambswool clothing
I am (b)eating defenceless animals
I am mutually masturbating with shadows
I am making a list and checking it twice
I am hammering a nail in your round robin
I am lying in this pit, downwards
I am opening my pits, outwards

Fucking in the cold

So cold that fucking is the only option
Must find something to fuck
Must find something to put my dick in
It is so cold it feels like outdoors
If I were actually outdoors I wouldn't fuck anything
That's not ok
But I am indoors
Might bake something

Teens dig my thing

Every one of my attempts to engage you
turns into this jelly baby;
my diction shifts beside you.
Like a Wikipedia page that leads to nowhere.

One day, our ideas will fuck each other like we do:
without lube—
or with,
if they can find it in the dresser drawer.

Maggots clean and piercing
so not maggot-       like
It's hard to be yourself when you don't know who that is
if we ever get out of this death trap you must promise.

This is a thing that could never be a thing.
Like our thing, that was a thing then wasn't,
do you remember?
You said I smelled like applesauce and I said it's over.