In the limb’s tempest
I lave myself in sex shops and glories in the gallery.
The sky, down
east, is peeling paint and rusty nails
like a slaughterhouse
or bloated whale, depending on the angle
of the Maserati.
I ride the radio dial Route 6 to Provincetown
Portuguese sleaze, UK-Punjabi, bitchy repartee
some dj with a neck-corset flown in from the Tory years
past the foot and line of ocean’s breath
past a dragger named Arete,
they found the Lady of the Dunes at Race Point in ’74
no head, no hands, toes painted pink;
Hopper used to paint in Truro, in the whitewash of treeless country
in a shivering shack with a rain barrel,
trawling lonely chapels, brutal aesthetics, eyes as slippery
as a pair of Wellies.
I ride the radio dial
remembering the cover of The Face: SPEED SEX GORE AGGRO
splashy like a tea dance with Chief Whip, rum punch
solid gold, a cock like Plymouth Rock.
Life spills out, life spills out
one pipeful at a time,
Cast the gillnet at the Buoy Bar
watch the blitz kids pout. I kittle, you
yip. Merry the handsome sailorman fights the bull at 4 pm,
his skin is an excellent fit. Marry Reed dresses me
in bloomers, shapes the sound, sweeps low the trapeze line
and rows of pearly buttons— be quiet, love
those second generation modernists killed the sacred and profane.
Festooned, I cannot be reached by mail
and the gurry on the street of merchants is as red
as improbable flowers. They fish-the-fuck out of Georges Bank.
I quote Lear and Moby Dick
to a raft of rats and cat food tins.
-- Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. He's the author of the full-length collection Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Farewell Transmission, The Gorko Gazette, Don't Submit!, Horror Sleaze Trash, and others.