WORLD CUP 2006

We can hear
the rustle of their hooves
pounding
that forested carpet
where tears of sweat
drip from their weakened grasp
and spread the ballroom dance floor
with a film of steam that
dribbles slow like cum squashed
under skin and
perfumed with motion.

Behold this epic chase
recited as romantic strings
relating the travel of a swirling marble
whose legless fleet streams
deep between two races at war
who hunt their prey with fish nets
and toss it back in the green sea.

Covetous in their
noble grimace
they are swollen heaps of muscle
pressing victory against eachother,
their roasted flesh
wrapping blood
the way bronzed wine cups
embrace the lips
and pour their insides
without surrendering the
scarlett residue that resists retreat

to savor
the sweets glazed over your eyes
thickening the lashes in sleep
the mascara gunk heavy in lust
the image of virility and skill
made moist in an unsurmountable grass field
that is the landscape of our 21st century erotica
the wistful ballet of the brutes
their carved legs like ancient
tree trunks caught in an eternal fall
and prepared to shoot seeds.

Who ever of us knew
that angels' play was
just a game.