Why does my blood tug against seagulls of mercy? It laps on the oblong moonlight, a dying embryo, while I fuck on the other side of sunshine. Plant daisies in her mouth with my thumb and say sorry. I cum staring at beige brick patios walling the sun. Linger by the waterpump staked in the garden dogchained to sadness. Lick the crease of my groin. Imagine inhabiting a young clean woman horny for older men. Relish surrender as the man’s daddy stubble rises over her softness, eclipsing her clit. She grows old in the eye. Somewhere the hollowness in the newness snaps and we’re just fucking. He ploys at domination, she cums twice. What fills this slaking? I see the blue of white things in moonlight. Yacht on black water beside the scrambled moon as wavelets slap. Their grip and hollow plunking are connected. They slide far away. Dictate to me an end. The moon aborts her answers on the sand. Particles over the eye’s torpor. I get up to leave on the verge of vomiting. Why question an image which won’t subside? Dialectic solves itself but not the boat nor the feeling. The moon, like stage-lighting, recedes until the earth is a lozenge. In mother of pearl, a single kelp noose.
Shaun Pieter Clamp
Shaun Pieter Clamp is a writer and literary agent with the World Arts Agency. He is a graduate of Rhodes University, holding a BA in English, Philosophy and Law, and a BA(Hons) in Philosophy, for which he received the DCS Oosthuizen Prize. He was the co-editor of Aerial 2018, an annual ISEA writing class anthology. In 2019, he was the co-editor of Abantu: Our Zine, an art and literary zine published through Instagram (@abantu.our.zine). His writing has been published in New Contrast, Aerial 2018 and Coming Home: Poems of the Grahamstown Diaspora.
Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash