Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle
the flesh within me slumps and slacks,
you’ve kicked down the pillars boy
opening up this chest
with the breath of a dozen women on his skin.
slender fingers ungloved, dipping his
glittered
hands in
yellowed lungs.
just how you like it
spread your palms on this chassis
and press
hard.
exotica drifting
dig for the heart like thieves.
cavity, blazed scorn until
you start to smell it,
half-caramelised
petrol-veneer and nude
skinned.
you wish this organ would part
more softly,
more erotic.
but the membrane sheds its layers,
messy like fruit.
bruised sugars and pulp,
drink up boy.
one. the sugar melts and scums,
a wax star on your stomach,
torture porn. just how you like it
two. plant and sow the fire boy,
watch the harvest moon.
let me pray to it. with hot hymns,
riesling breath. he whispers.
the sonographer takes out my x-ray prints,
points to
the spot
below the
third rib
right side.
the car bombs go off in the derry again.
he called it a minefield,
taps it twice and says it should not be touched
belfast boy.
your grandfather put up the peace wall on sunday.
you said I ought to know.