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Carnal Pissings, Invitations.

No claim here to make.

Her odor is wonderful,
sex as perfume,

yet my piss
appears to be absent
in the air — indeed, nowhere
in evidence.

No territory marked.

So please, explain this jealousy
overwhelming me,
identify any vague semblance
of a justification,

for I persist
at making myself fucking sick
over this.

I have no right.
I have no right.

Turning subject to object
in my eyes through relentless
instinctual desires again:
childless and primitive.

She is a person,
not a possession.

Such fucking shallow
greed I find thriving
in me, a part craving

to own the aspect
of her that drifts
like a vessel seeking

to be commandeered,
a mountaintop that cores

out its own deep
and so narrow
hole, seemingly

customized
for my flagpole.

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