Drive, 1986

Angry ants bite me awake, his bed takes the cake, sheets of binges, pillows of hay. We knock skulls in the middle of the night, and snivel on sleeves of plastic raincoats. He is a naked agent of thistles and burlap, a hairy muscle pierced by cobwebs, a hunk showering outside on a hillside for all eyes of the city to see. He waits for me in the dark, taps my shoulder with a quill pen, and drives me down civilization to a tiki hut by the sea where I fuck him silently under terrarium light. The glamour of horror, the seeds of sin, a welcome mat to an endless kiss-off. What starts green and ends black, with everything in between Day-Glo and suffering? I change lanes and yield to a driver with flowing locks who knocks my socks off the driveshaft.

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