We’re running around this field like two godless little beasts,
eyes punched out and eaten by Christ, with salt and gin, He
tells us it’s for our own good and then holds out a hand,
a hand that’s a golden platter,
but you take mine instead
and tell Him we’ll take the long way round,
find our own way home,
tell him he best get gone.
Then the dogs all come and the bulls too;
I think they want our bones and our blood. And
one day they may have them, but not today,
when we need them direly,
in fact, desperately, critically.
It’s been three months since we last touched
each other; we perhaps have never and will
never need our bodies more than this; watch
terror flood in against our will. But, tell me
you don’t like it. Tell me you aren’t euphoric
with your hands shaking, violent and mad,
your soul completely aware that it’s a soul,
your love for me bigger than the death anxiety
underneath your skin, your throbbing heart
slobbering right out of your mouth, tell me you’d
prefer this any other way, any other way than this.