The Darkcamp

The 12 levels of the subworld

Must look like a cross-section of ant tunnels

I am reverse-birthed downwards

every night, one choice at a time

through the plasma womb into greater worlds

—the haylight and the ocarina’s harmonies

but the fanged proprietor makes me forget every morning—

—the trick

Down to level 11 where my dumb feet stretch the womb-division

And mangle the children in the darkcamp below

Until I can smell the purification of ruptured organs

I cry until I take the wafer

…and I am with them, the smell of fleeing fear in my nose.

Cuddle

—fill me up

—like a cup

Her hair is fireworks twisting from her head

That fall in soft loops against my naked chest

A fistful for sex, a handful for afterwards

And the weight of her head laid over me

gives my breathing significance

and I am filled with warm mercury

not the translucent tails of flying ghosts

—fill me up

—like a cup