Sexmare in the meadow (before breakfast)

 
I wake up wasted  
writing emo  
screaming to make it stop  
before the glitch grows a cult  
crazier than diamonds & coke  
 
Only sex  
smells automatically poetic  
naked in the meadow  
away from cow pats  
a skimpy skirt  
worshipping the sky  
while bare bums bob  
pounding earth for a lock of eyes  
as the thunder of the harvest  
rumbles closer  
 
There should be a drug for that--  
at least a twitch in my head  
to kick out of poet mode  
dumping the painful rigmarole  
of editing away your own death  
but I know there's none  
only greedy metal jaws  
grinding their blizzard of chaff  
before a blight of wheeling crows  
 
When even summertime  
loses its breath  
& the ghosts of love  
beguiled by lust  
already sprawl without hope  
I am ready to die  
the tamest hero's death  
to haunt this feeling  
forever if I must  
while the air moans  
for one more stroke  
 
One more stroke...  
 
But the ground is shaking  
as I crumple & shrink  
nothing aching in a churn of limbs  
She murmurs and bites my neck  
turning baby souls into butterflies  
designed by nature  
for fucking any place  
any time the sun shines whole  
 
We brush the hay from our bones  
look death in the face  
and run  
while somewhere near Port Talbot  
the kettle in the kitchen  
boils its plastic heart dry  
ever hungry for fresh hot  
blood