Anus
Fodder of dead hours indifferently humid between my legs. The dumb penumbra moans in the inky shade of my fingerprints unravelling the buttocks of the corpse in the warp of dusk. The curve of a voice resonates in the winter light of my ashes: bulbs and bones under the stupor of the frozen sundial. What immovable thing ignites the petal in a discharge of silence? A blood-stained potbelly is my laser leaf of solitude. To abruptly smell the anus of the tremulous sun, as if by instinct: ear of dawn, verbal glance, kiss of zero, star scar, paten patina, dust fuse, veins of twilight, nocturnal entrails, rabid aurora of pretexts, wrinkled adjectives, drizzle of fulgor in the corroded night. --Bob BrueckL
