A Tribute to John Donne (and Stephen Nashef)

Oh visceral sun go bother others that are yet younger than us instead, As everything that matters now is sealed inside this bed.

We are whole countries caught in cotton, hip to hip, with spittle on the pillow. I just wish that busy old fool, the cruel winter sun, would piss off and leave us to it.

We are two stumps of broken teeth who (sleeping sweetly) both are crowned the king and queen of our cushioned domain because nobody else is around.

We are like ammonites coiled in bliss; we wake with bleary lust. And late from punched up alarm clocks rush into the city’s dreary wilderness.

I swear at you sun, through the curtains and then give him one last kiss.

Jemima Foxtrot