poem -

the hero game

their eyes are seeking what disgusts them the most
a twenty-note-on-the-street-type connect
but tonight what will do will come to have been
past the loin-on-bone that the tongue will reject

these swollen late hours desire a fresh feast
as the saturday children sleep for the balance
this mess is a constant, repeated to worn
a scramble of jaw, finger and phallus

but where else is there life to be gathered tonight?
‘neath a sheet laid shaking by one’s hand alone
thumbing through photos or stewing past frays
scraping belief and clicks on a phone?

cradle me mother of wasted returns
by the muck river water, the ramshackle lay
slipping on the weight predictably borne
once more tonight, my footsteps will stray