Butterflies

It's all butterflies in the fields of horny.
All winged smiles atop limbs and abdomens
upon futon meadows at tracklight dusk.
Broken thermostat summers have ripened
third-date harvests early and they
burst open at the lightest touch.
Flocks of nimble promises and pastel lies
are a final modesty on animal hide.
Shivers like tonguelings made to french-kiss flowers
follow large thumbs down to where the nectar drips.
Fluttering pretenses animate the air;
confetti of a naked people parade
down a hall to a dark room with a bed.

Where a rutting spasm inside a musky stain ablaze
with scorched-earth honesty happens,
and pretense is chewed through like restraints.
A fuck. Those poor butterflies.
Doomed, like all metaphors trapped here.

Crumpled on breastbone, shredded on raked backs,
squished down into navels, tangled in sodden furs,
swallowed whole into astonished maws,
slurped in the cross-fire of lips and humid flesh,
or smeared to grease between nipples and teeth,
asses and open palms, phallus and fists,
thighs and ears, hungers and creams.
Lured down from ceiling swarms
of frenzied thoughts by hot biology.
The torque of nature and we're all flightless there.
Mortared and pestled, and
mortared and pestled, and
mortared and pestled, to nectar steam and butterfly smoke.

The morning air is awkwardly clear.
Memories crawl like lunar moths in a bright sun
over itches and scatterings of charred and yellowed wings.