Thrust^[1]

we are young and odorous

shit caking on our calves we

zip along the lord's highways

a brisk pace kills the hunger

we drink the sand in the wind

we flutter and flap the air

to shreds with our wings, torn from

the hides of automobiles

along the side of the road

strung securely to our arms

the elegance and fury

of ducks walking on water,

walks with us on the burning

asphalt that we punish with

the hubcaps lashed to our feet

macadam leaves its rubble

in our chromium callus

good food hides under fungus

no rot means no digestion

we are young and odorous

we cleave our cranium like

we part our hair, and give our

thoughts some light and air and the

mush of our brains a sunburnt crust

listen, in the oak crown a

voice is singing itself a

body from sinewy words

when, towards daybreak, it has

gained its proper weight, down it

comes, crashing with branches and

foliage, fracturing its

infant bones to join in last

our breath is hot and spicy

and lethal to insects, our

breastbone is a stone axe

and our armpits are snap traps

for the encroaching vermin

since all of our personal

differences have eroded

we have pulled monitors

over our heads, to say hello

we smash each others screens and

recognise every one by

their own particular brand

the roadtop cracks open where

our feet come down, its gravel

is scattered by the arid

wind that covers it with sand

we are young and odorous

sometimes between our thighs a

leathery slab of meat swings

to and fro its origin

and use since long a mystery

to us, we cut it up

in straps and give these to the

weak to chew on while they walk

you can piss to high heaven

but never as hard as high

heaven can piss down on you

we empty the bottle, break

it over the back of our

our head and jam the shards in our

gums as a new set of teeth

our father buried his heart

by the side of the road while

he was drunk, sometimes, in search

of bulbs or worms, we happen

upon it there, measure the

length and strength of its outgrowths

and put it back in the ground

even in dreams we never 

leave the road, but it is

not we who are walking, it

is the road itself that yearns

to go and tugs at our feet

our tits test the air like the

wings of the ostrich, to boost

our withered nipples we screw

in deluxe bumper bolts that

gleam with brazen libido

the fabric of our skin is

taut like aluminium foil

and sings around our muscles

our belly is the snare drum

of our haste and the shriek

of our hip joints is curried

with the grit of our bones

nothing infected is dead

that which can still squeal still lives

we are young and odorous

when we no longer feel our

blood, we zip open our rib

cage and with a cool hand we

knead our heart back to the beat

the dead we stick into the

ground, at night his soul digs out

of his arse, and in the shape

of a mole must follow us

till one of us flicks him out

of his tunnel, skins him, picks

clean his bones and so frees him