Skin Drum

Snatch a glimpse of thigh,
Brush the lip.
There the burnished truth sits.
No lie.

Veiny map of corpuscular twinings, heart echoes
and fear.
Shows the way lost but not begotten.
Muscular hope, slippery slope,
No fingerhold
No grip too bold
for this naked snake thief here.
Quite a charmer.

Tight drum skin stretched over the fire,
Played and replayed up and down the blood stream.
"Trust lust"
it pounds.
Remember to dismember the headbolt skulljointed gates of Hell.
A roving eye is Heaven's porthole.
Surely there are many wonders in this holy house
Of ill dispute.

Leave the arguer on the tree,
Still green with puckered ass.
Leave the measurer,
The anti-pleasurer,
Lurking at the windowsill.
They will come round to the back of the house in good time,
Sneak a peek at the cooling pies.
A thigh pie or two is what is kneaded.
So round and firm so sweet and rare.
A taste is what is must.
A chaste is what is thrust.

Machines shut down around us, grow old and cold.
And we sit out on June's fine lazy lawn (playing the skin drum)
Licking our fingers, listening to the hum of night coming on.
The pies were tasty.
Have we no shame?