Depths and Shallows

And you know that my suit cost more than your house
I'm a scoundrel, a lover, a murderous louse
And I look good in your bed
And you think that I'm lookin' good - Electric Six, “Vengeance & Fashion”

A little thrill.
The dead land calls to me
and I demand its champion.
The perfect man in honesty
has always been a bag of dirt.
Outlined on a cinema screen,
the rule of thirds delighting him,
until in black-and-white even
he smoulders like a dog in hell.

The limited range of my urge
is what the dead land is.
Clay gives birth to clay,
and from the clay that’s born
a bastard vision comes about,
linked overtly to my loins.

He’s sour in sight but tastes as sweet
as apples infernally ripe.
The bastard oozes confidence.
And this is my shallowest place, his home,
sometimes viewed in Mind’s theatre,
but also felt as a nameless want.
A male is a shallow beast
of endless murky depths,
at least in the ocular pinion of
the male talking now.