Leaving the Bronze Age

My boy tastes like iron,
sweat and sun and gold
coins pressed against teeth and tongue.
Testing the metal
for purity
for resale value.

My boy tastes like iron.
War and pestilence
the horses of the apocalypse
rising out of morning mist
beautiful and desired
as Pegasus from Morgan's
open, bleeding arteries.

My boy tastes like iron.
Steaks and slow food movements.
Bleeding hearts and
sad, slow passions. I
would eat him alive
to cure my languor.

I would fuck him until my
heart starts beating again,
until he fills mercurial and
heavy with leaden
tuning lay
rusted, musical but
lately sunk
in salt and tide
and the last fillings of
teeth disolved.

My boy tastes like iron

My boy tastes like blood