Pure, unbounded sex they are!
Kings by day
and monarchs of the night,
they have it made,
the spiders with their sexual flair
and awful potency.
Of all our fears, we fear the most
their prowess in the web.
They have monopolised the field:
good sex, bad sex,
they have it all, who hang their wares
upon the nearest tree
and tease us as we try to pass,
their long legs in our way.
What are these wares of theirs?
Why, nothing less
than organs of the tender trap
made in situ
and deployed outside the body!
Beauty becomes them
and becomes the trap.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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