In the recurring caveman
Dream I wear my meat vest
And I love you, the whites
Of our eyes gleaming
Like cleanly-picked bones, we sit
Beside our fire, which allows us
To think outside
Predation and weather
And I wonder
If I would have the time
To love you otherwise, this thought
Unsteadies me horribly, like
Yesterday, in the hands
Of the pear-shaped Russian
Hairdresser, the way
Her sylphlike colleague steadily
Peered at me in the mirror
Over her steaming
Cup of tea, I felt like sleeping
In her eyes, the want to bed
Down in the space between her lips
And the mug, this is what haircuts
Mean to me, I am as a beast
Dressed in the guise of a boy, I wish
For a small, ardent thing
And am throttled by
It, by the lung-crushing collapse
Of my own desire as it comes
Into fruition, which
Is why I prefer my hallucinatory
Neanderthal life, days
Spent inching
Boulders from the ridge
Where below a pitching pack
Of mastodons tread trumpeting and nights
Where my dream
Within my dream is of riding
The mountainous
Eremotherium, a being
Whose yawning bellow fills
Forests where birds once ruled
The earth, luckily
We have no such ambition, our fire
Crumbling down to embers, your hand
Probing for morsels in my stiff
Knotted hair, I remove
My meat vest and I love
You, your bulbous
Nose warm against mine in the ash-filled night.
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