Ode to Mr. Swinger, the Non-Lingerer

feet like the Pieta
run through a word chipper

slightly larger than I can
fit my lips around,
skinny assed

is in favor of guns,
but not me owning one

hair tinged red in the candle-light,
under the flashlight,
comes out in fistfuls under the covers

blind-folded and bound,
mouth a large goldfish
in a muddy tank

hard to pull apart
hard to whip, slippery

an electrical hazard,
teeth chipped on the bones
of my shoulder

skin marked pink with scratches,
like someone was falling down a wall,
clinging

sometimes sings songs about dirt
and making me bleed

winter green breath
with notes of gardenias and pot

will grab my tits in front
of the hospital and laugh

won’t sleep next to me
because of what I might do
to his wallet

tongue that unfurls
like the red
flag of pleasuretown (trademarked in Thailand)

spring-loaded cock,
chin like an old witch’s,
moles like marks of sin (or too much sun)

secretly hates
me, secretly loves my
hair, and maybe, the way I smile
with my eyes closed