CARMINA FULMEN

CARMINA FULMEN(songs of thunder)

In the dark/lying in bed with nothing to do//
When you are old and married to a girl/
who once brought you student pleasures of instant polaroid slickness//
Her long red nails pinching smooth dark nipples
placed along with lipstick kisses as a reminder or a promise/
between pages of school texts soon ignored//

When we couldn’t wait to clean impromptu carnal dishes
from a table which groaned shouts of spice//

When our combined fahrenheit was enough
to melt the ice of winter examinations//

In that 3—story walk—up the sounds of nightly sex
echoed through those tightly packed
row—house confessionals of rented space//
And a cast iron—stove barely supplied any warmth/
next to a claw—foot bathtub used to drench desires//
Its enamel rubbed smooth by our friction
that provided lathered moments//
In that same kitchen where we yelled omnivorous oaths/
as we explored naked geography
on our wild raftride down the uncharted waters
of some great current//
Our bodies overcome with courses of delight/
only later to learn that water is no lubricant for exhausted excess//
As we licked ourselves raw like a pair of lovely cats
legs splayed taut with anticipation//
Who taste and purr until
their eyes close/in the dark where we wait now
in this suburban vocabulary where rock&roll is nostalgic/
among thickets of manicured lawns which
ensnare Freudian brambles accepted
by the demanders of ownership//
Where uniform sounds of night are commonplace
and inescapable before those first low baritone rumbles of heated thunder//

When we race outside cur house
daring lightning to strike us both naked and a little saggier//
Our bodies flash
in brief grins of desperate light/
like snapshots of streakers caught
in defiance of sanity//
While we suck and stroke liver—spotted flesh/
That beholds the welcome drops of moisture
from a purple sky that crackles
with burnt showers of ozone which fill our nostrils//
As your tongue eases over
what is left of my muscularity under
the dark sweating trees//
While we hear magical sounds
Which call us to strange excitements//
While others hide//Fearful
they would be seduced by the spasm and roar//
Just as Hemingway was/
as his jaws opened wide
and the cold metal barrel
must have felt so bloody feverish
like our sweaty skin
the last time//
We danced
on a green slick carpet
no matter about skinned knees
or elbows//
You reached behind
and I thrust in-time to catch
breathless phrases//
Our lungs gasping
with voices that beg and repeat//
Come//Come//Come//Do not let me die//