CHEATING

I listened hard to the kind of sense he spoke, but crushed
his girlish, goodish moly underfoot — Fuck That!
and became porcine, my swine snout truffling in muck.
There to be unmanned, made animal, anything
furry or feathered in the hot, closed stench
of the pen. Us beasts were brutish, lusty, grunting
in the crush, trampling each other to be first
to the trough, the pile so deep it seemed
there was no end to the udders and hooves,
no up, no down, just the salted taste of hide
bristling over my tastebuds and I thought again
of Hermes; that youthful messenger with the soft,
brown hair on his arms, those sensible brown eyes,
the kind of sense he spoke, the white flower crushed
underfoot, and in this lesson I find my face
buried deep in the anus of a friend, my eyes
screwed tight shut, the tongue take black root:
My head's full of him — These Lies! and truth's
the silent moly flowering in my mouth.