C.L. Liedekev

Doing it Right

Everything, and I mean everything, is burning.
The night of her 31st birthday: the smell
of the car tires squealing, pinning me in the garage,
the rush of blood from her slap across the face,
pussy juices on the couch, the lingering of fucking
in the air like the house was haunted,
streaks of dust across the glass, small grains
spilling down onto the rug. A tiny white landscapes
where generations of ideas will die and be reborn
only to be forgotten in the moment of insertion.

She will split the difference across the arms
of the chair, every orifice, every pore – wide open
and yearning – a flock for the shepherd. Some
bearded wet Jesus in a dirty bathrobe, screwdriver
and blackberry stained, Guccione’s corpse
on a bender, grave-stained and dick hungry.
What burns harder the fire or the skin under
the flame. Flesh peeling off into its own dance,
Yanvalou summoning until the entire room
is a gnawing mouth shape, a vulval vestibule
that swallows and swallows and swallows.

The end of the night shits open the cracked curtains,
the neighbors, the cats, the birds rattle the walls
like a concert, no one bought tickets for,
and the mountain erupts because it is always
about the mountain, the eruption of bleach
and pineapples, hands sticky and wiped on thighs.
Thick bubblegum. Ripped panties don’t
always spell passion, sometimes just desperation.
Spitting into opens mouths, a long stream down
the face, the sheets ripped up into a skull
and crossbones flag of attack.

Passion is crucified and dirty speak sounds
like Annunaki shit talking. Heaven is not
on the end of a penis or three fingers deep.
It is not pupils as black as dead moons
spinning in a dead orbit in a dead circle,
because what matters is the lava flowing under the bed,
the raw animal machines, pegged time in a ball gag,
the right here and right now of the in there and down there,
the spitting blood and the flowered grotesqueries of fluid.
Because if you are not doing it right, then don’t do it at all.

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