Men in the forest, men on the hunt. Sweaty armpits, the scent of leisure; sweaty thighs, the quest for pleasure; because men of a feather flock together.
Amongst the trees, a happy trail, a growl turns into a sigh, a swan song, la petite morte...just a mouthful.
This flora and fauna hides an incongruous desire to be loved, but like a goat’s heart theirs will never kick start.
When the wind rattles bones and muscles
And as dandelions fly all around us
To the beat of double drums
hear them whisper “harder harder...harder”.
These men full of ardour set gorse on fire
While semen dripping gallows give birth to deadly screams
Semen dripping hands collect berries and weeds.
Here they come
Tingling spines, dirty swines, raging lilies of the Nile
Chips on their shoulders, clones and lumberjacks
Because nothing in this world can do a man harm, when to hold his cock he needs both hands.
In dog rose land underneath a chicken legged hut
Across the sound of howling wolves
That echoes at unison rip-roaring moans
At full pelt and on all fours
They are their father’s 7th son.
Clenching nettle between your teeth, hold your breath and it won’t sting
Heads wrapped in broderie, fireflies light up a fist
Dewdrops drip from open lips
A sea of natural numbers at their peak
...It’s all covered in resin.
I say in the name of my father’s still born twin brother let’s send these feral men to the slaughter!
(oh but how I wish I’ve gone down with them, underneath father nature’s musky fur).