atavistic

something about the endless ache
causes me to slip back in time

not a few days or weeks,
but back through the
lizard part of my brain,
to some primordial ooze
where a version of me,
something pre-feral,
has flopped on land
for the first time seeking

to eat
to breathe

to fuck

as I hitch across the land,
body dripping
with instinct and
the fecund taste
of need
something catches my eye

and my mind pants,

as you slide to me taking in
(teeth and nails and hungry eyes)
the tides with each step
I smile.

The prettiness of words
fades
as all three instincts
(breathe, eat, fuck)
are sated;

sand scouring my back,
you grunt bitch against my
mouth as my nails
mark your ass,
as your cock
marks my hunger,
and your body
marks my

de-evolution