Aching to taste the heel of your foot,
your crumpled brow,
the lineage of your stamina,
I wrangle my might
and set forth
unrepentant, unmade, unwashed
and crowd my mind with
the blowing scent of
browning thighs
that shine and tumble
on slippery ground,
whipping down hard on my
electric loins,
our tongues tied like rat tails,
tangled and swollen,
deserted by starry skies,
digested by lust,
exposed with weakness,
as cloudy drops of sweat
meander down the nape
of your neck,
down the line of your spine,
into the stacked flesh
dimpled and screaming for touch.

You own me.

You know it.

And I am good with that


same routine, same thoughts
most circling around a woman
with wide hips
or a bent hose-covered knee
or the dizzying hint of an areola
brazenly displayed in the cold cut aisle.

these thoughts, this routine,
fully encrusted, each of them,
fanged in spots with silver tips,
spouting words forgotten
by Kings and Queens.

these barren crusted thoughts
arrive steady as the evening news,
ridden upon the backs of
frauds and finks,
as the long eared beaters
cough and gag on the night
from the street outside my window.

these thoughts,
these thoughts,
these thoughts,
always circling the drain,
spiraling down in a cascade
of deliberate brutishness,
vain with gummed up wisdom,
constricted by need,
consumed with lust,
as these thoughts shop for eggs and bread
peering unseen into the blouses
of firm breasted strangers
standing over bargain meats,
measuring their might
against my own.


A crushing glance
glowing beyond recognition
lays heavy on my skin
as piles of bent twisted rays
spring fast across
my hung dried neck
weathered pockets of gloom
abandoned by dabs of light
languishing on riverbeds
on mountainsides
on matted sands flooded with pennies
and rings of constellations
pairing peacefully
on the crystal shores
sliding sideways against
my hangdog grin. 

One thought on “VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Rob Azevedo

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