Your Buried Splinter

My clothes smell of bonfire smoke
& my sweat drips garlic/ My throat
readies to burn/ What a perfect day
You are a splinter under my flesh –

without pain [none lodged in me] I’ll
not pull you from me/ Burrow more
& infect me & stir a candied poison
[by presence] mixing honey & blood

to be bled/ I now slake on my skin’s
wound – but no removal – no tugging
of your sliver/ You’ll now corrupt us
with your kiss of sepsis in my veins/

Pull me to your pit & let me abrooke
love’s malaise [& bear more lesions]
but – still – I am undistressed by your
infection of me – we will sudate sex –

to mix with other tasted sweats/ No
nails struck in your plaster Jesus of
Nazareth [none]/He is more bruckle
than me/ I absorb you – a cut stick –

out of sight & so avoid worrying our
younger kinds [those we fostered to
minded ways]/ This flinder fuses as
my defences melt [an exquisite scar

will be left from days of burning-ups
& digging-at]/ I will bemuffle you – in
a tight gauze if it means you’re kept
safe from your under-skin qualms –

& visit your garden – we can work as
a pair – pulling out burnables & roots
to find never-touched loams under a
hospital blanket – Burn those witches

& dripping memories with a fire stick
to poke – we absorb more splinters &
scars off choking smoke & we gyrate
with that Lizard King & call on ghosts

of Red Indians with your rude embers
& I have found a piece of Heaven – on
your sofa we lean in – relaxing another
rule [my wound bleeds easily into you]