Yellow Card

my mouth tastes the salinic teardrops

from your brutal mouth: the way your teeth

sink deeply into the sourness of my sex—

here's the light that Christ and Buddha both lit

the specks of sweat in your hair, the moonlight takes it in

so the Man on the Moon can have a drink

with his dinner. we are his entertainment,

as he watches your body thrash into mine

and watch my limp frame simply lay.

remember the simplicity of my affection:

remember the deadly wounds left by the blade

of your sharp tongue. let the marriage of our figures

replace that which you have left soiled

like the way you left my sheets in the dark of night.