Cuntry

You can tell it's desolate
by stepping on my feet,
asking us to move and finding
we're glued.
The lie of us reverberating on piss coloured walls-
it sneaks. The wind is brittle. I can't feel
anything, my fingertips hesitate, shake,
isolate air, cut the fog until it bleeds oxygen.
Heat doesn't even relieve pock marks
blue stark streaks
dirt, celtic.
Your bed high up,
deep voices shouting orders and you follow,
crisp shirt sleeves papercutting and it rings in my orifices:
the ache.
Reaches bodies like jelly, slicing easily
burns it burns without you, Rab.
There's no black. Tiny feet kick skin in the back of my head.
Ask for renewal.