Adam Fieled; six poems from When You Bit...

Grudge-Fucks


This, crazy, water-leakage:
I slip-slide away into you,
out of you, into her, out of
her, we’re oil-slicked birds
squawking out minor-key
laments for lost closure. I
hang on the end of clothes-
lines: I’m ten sheets, each
dripped w grease, blood,
butter, milk, a catalogue of
epic grudge-fucks. Not that
anyone has come. Each kiss
is a suicide Jack in a game:
sixty-nine innings. No draw.




I’m Down


Forest: within it, I’m
field mice, I scamper.
Over still streams I
watch your beechen
green strips fold off.
I hide beneath logs,
consoled by slugs. I
intermix w acorns, I
sharpen my teeth on
pictures of you. I am
down wells. I’m down.
My body is grounded.
I’ve been pounded by
solitude: thus, I frown.




Three Sets of Teeth


Three sets of teeth: who
can check for cavities?
A three-way circuit: who
will start the striptease?
Three lovers in three ways:
how merrily the dance
begins. We spin, we spin,
we forget our instincts,
anima, the part of teeth
that cuts. We are sluts.
There is an “I” here that
stands for all of us, but
its eyes are shut. Sleep
lulls it to rest, not think. Or speak.




Cocaine Gums

I ache: dull, sharp,
in a heap of paper.
All paper: picture,
bright, bold, dark.
I have nailed you
to a piece: black.
I darken touched
things: I’m used.
I write you, you,
you, as if kissed
by a fresh body,
rose-petal bliss.
I drowse: numb
as cocaine gums.




Screw


I want you to be like a bull.
I want you to call me a fool.
I want to be ass-proud for you.
I want you to call me to screw.
I know this iambic is dry.
I know this excess has to stop.
I know I can laughably cry.
I know blood can come drop by drop.
I come for you kicking my ass.
I’ve come to be making a pass.
I’ve come undistracted by “I”.
I killed off my “I” as it’s dry.
I start off these lines in the sand.
I want to end up in your hand.




Duration


This eclipse: I’m durable
only before, after. Throat
parched, nightingale loud
in my trees, I’m beechen.
I’m green. I send myself
into forests after you, I
skip over streams, being
stone: heavy, jagged, on
top of slugs, worms, dirt.
My heart: too thick, aches.
I don’t want beer, I want
to be wound around you.
Deliverance: beds of muck.
It’s what I can say you suck.