Albatross Anew: Bitch in Heat

ALBATROSS ANEW: BITCH IN HEAT

Albatross,
What flotsam is this
Held carefully in your beak,
Falling abyss tenderly
And warm?
It appears to be
A high wild flower
With small breasts
And a tiny waist,
With nine bracelets chiming
Along a thin bony wrist, first
Peeking out of paisley puffed sleeves
Then clanking like demure box cars;
Whose minty soft breath caresses the small
Of my thick neck, swirling
Long locks into curly tangles;
Like a jeweled isle
Pouting small in a dark gray corner
Of the San Juans,
With only three trees still standing,
But deceptively beautifully solid with shores
Lashed hard by tall waves,
Turgid with nets and broken pieces
Of driftwood and computers, yes definitely
Female, fecund, smelling of fish,
Providing complex coitus with a tasseled cushion,
Steaming sex devoid of din and teeth,
Just hanging on for a ball-busting ride
On that bullock orgasmatron,
Tearing at the fabric of propriety
Like a sad rat chewing dead fingers
To the bone;
Connected, you dig,
But not whole,
Fragmented like a Monet
Swirl of dot matrix,
Drenched deep in the sin of many colors,
Yet frightening, dude,
As the chilling screams of the innocent millions mingle
Into one horrific chorus
On the 6:00 News
Just before I came
To my senses and tried in vain
To see who the hell you actually were
Cradled in that musky brown beak,
A swallowed thing that still lives,
That I could kiss without lips
Leaving your vanilla essence in my hot mouth,
Startled by a flurry
As you flew without wings
To Atlantis,
And all I could in Christ’s world do
Was stand mute watching your contrail
Dissipate into husky mist,
And wait impatiently
For my own feathers
To sprout.

Glenn A. Buttkus March 2006