Old sketch, New Poem

O, I'm serious about

the delicate nature of things

like glass tusks snuck snug

through pierced ears 

hanging heavy so that the lobes

are a weighted a bit while you

walk or push your hair

behind your ears

sitting indian style

on the carpet

O, my God,

I wish you wore heavy earrings

like clumps of fruit

dripping drugs

so there might be 

the slightest warning

that speaking to you

will be like lifting a rock

revealing all manner 

of scattering insects

as you sing the 

distinct songs of hormones

sung in the tongue of whore moans

slung in the slips of skin sewn

with guns on the arms of long bones

goodnight.