Sluice 


Mouth of a samurai, a semaphore, sandwich. 
Talks like trousers down ankles. Pants on their knees. 
His dirty chatter: a lattice of teeth and palate 
tonguing up a trundle bed of poppy cock, a pleach 
of bruised pears. When you heed him go weird with it, 
iterationing, all torque and verby mealworm, spitfuls 
of nasty this and kitty coo that. Boy spouts hot gibberish 
like preggers in the mayonnaise. Boy speaks flouncy 
make you lie down. Your name reworked out his pie hole 
goes spinning top a cardboard slat, on its head and tripping balls. 
Boombox got no handle. His name: a rifle and sissy’s panties, 
skeet on toast. He is so awful velvety with that nonsense. 
Behemoth of the slant-wise double rainbow phrase. 
You invite him home for moonlight terrycloth Scrabble. 
You nail your fixtures to the wall and jelly up.